


Elementary Emotion

by Johnlocked_in_221B



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: A LOT of Angst, AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ariane DeVere is amazing, Ariane DeVere's transcription is used quite a bit, Artificial Emotions, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mycroft, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Broken Bones, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Character Deathes, Child Abuse, Feels, Homophobia, I abuse my smol children, I hate myself, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It just take awhile, John Loves Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary fans beware, Mary is Not Nice, Molestation, My hatred becomes apparent I think, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Worries, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, OOC, P.O.V switch, Pretend Sherlock never shot Magnussen, Prologue can be skipped, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock Gets Shot, Sherlock Loves John, Suicide, Tags progress as story does, Violence, he is so smol, he may be ooc, i hate her, mentions of drug abuse, sherlock is smol, sorta?, synthetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlocked_in_221B/pseuds/Johnlocked_in_221B
Summary: "He grits his teeth as the needle pierces his flesh. His hands tremble as he moves his thumb to push the plunger down. He pauses to take one shuddering breath, chokes back a sob, steels himself, and suddenly he is injecting apathy.'Just little bit,' he thinks, 'Just enough to take this pain away for a few hours.' He repeats this mantra as he silently begs for quick release until he can feel, one by one, all emotion drain away. Fear briefly consumes him as he feels all emotion begin to fade, but it passes quickly enough. His features slowly morph from anguish to this blank, haunting, expression. Beautiful verdigris eyes, which belied intelligence and were once so clear and bright, now gloss over in vacancy. Sherlock mechanically brings one hand up to wipe away the tears that were falling less than 30 seconds ago due to an unimaginable grief, but now...Now he feels nothing."





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> R E A D M E!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Hello! I hope I got your attention! Anyway, I want to say this right here because I want it to be clear that you DO NOT **HAVE** to read the prologue! You can skip right ahead to chapter two, if you so choose. However, the prologue does give a bit of information that might not instatnly be understood in chapter two. Anyway, happy reading!
> 
> T.W. for this chapter mentions of suicide and abusing of drugs (sorta)
> 
> Fun Fact! I created this painting in November, and I felt like it would be a cool little addition to this fanfiction. Hopefully it's not too lame to create fanart of my own story... ^_^;

Anger, sadness, grief, confusion, and fear…wouldn’t it be easier if no one had to live with any of these emotions? Wouldn’t life be so much better if no one could feel anything at all? Even joy eventually turns to sadness. Why would anyone voluntarily submit themselves to unnecessary heartache and pain? These simple questions and statements started it all. Soon, millions of people began to question the need for emotions.

In 1895, Dr. Sweeny, after years of asking the same question and conducting thousands of tests, produced a machine that could successfully extract emotions. It was a primitive device, though. This machine was designed to safely extract all emotions after one use. It caused many people to die after the extraction took place. After much deliberation from concerned members of the community, this device was named unsafe and inhumane.

In 1935, W. L. Hopper rethought the original idea and created a safer device that focused on one particular emotion at a time to efficiently extract the feeling. Instead of throwing away all of the discarded and unwanted emotions, people with mental illness demanded access to the positive feelings. In 1939, Pathogens Incorporated bought out the production of the bottled emotions and by 1945, injectable and artificial emotions were finally approved by the government and could be purchased by the general public. The people, who willingly gave away their emotions, quickly demanded payment for their service, and for a while, this was a wonderful system. Suicide rates plummeted for those with defective, mental illnesses, the economy was enriched with this new business, the monetary value of money rose dramatically, and those who did not want their emotions would not feel anything after each extraction. Bottling emotions were a great success.

 

This success, did not last.

Several of the people who sold their emotions could no longer take the emptiness they felt without them and stopped selling their feelings, and over ¾ of the donating population stopped providing the rest of the community with their usual dosage of emotions. Despite propaganda encouraging people to sell their emotions, people began questioning whether or not giving away their feelings was actually a good idea. Soon, the rumors began. It began as quiet whispers and hushed tones but this quickly escalated to panic when the dreaded word ‘ _shortage’_ was spoken.

However, in 1991, Dr. Goode received unofficial funding by means of anonymous donations to begin working on a new device that would help with this problem. Dr. Goode released the Pathos Eradicator on November 28th, 1994, which came at a seemingly opportune time. The demand for artificial emotions became so high that supply could not keep up with it. When word of the Pathos Eradicator was released, company officials played off the machine as a gift from the gods. This machine would solve the emotion shortage for the people who needed them, donators would be servicing the needs of mankind, and Dr. Goode promised that there would be no lasting side effects. It seemed to be a win-win for everyone involved.

Millions of  people lined up to participate in the machine’s debut. Initially, the campaign stated that every emotion would be extracted individually, sorted, and then bottled for the donor and consumer’s convenience. When the Donors finished the extraction process, they would be given a little black, unmarked pill, which would then restore the missing emotions over the span of one week. The process was executed flawlessly. Little black pills were administered, bottled emotions could be purchased, the economy was once again booming, and Pathogens Incorporated was reaping in the benefits. Everyone, except the temporarily emotionless individuals, seemed to be, overall, happier.

Two weeks passed and none of the emotions had yet to return to the donors. Riots broke out outside of the sleek company’s headquarters during the third week, and by the end of the month, Pathogens Incorporated requested time to solve the issue and patience from the general public. On January 1st, 1995, Pathogens Inc. released a statement to the general public that stated:  

**Dear Loyal Customers, Donors, and Consumers,**

 

 

 

> Over 28 million people donated their emotions by participating in Dr. Goode’s Pathos Eradicator, emotional extraction process. Despite Dr. Goode’s assurance that there would be no repercussions in this experiment, we at Pathogens Incorporated regret to inform you that the emotions, that were only supposed to be temporarily unavailable, are now lost. The black pill capsules, otherwise known of lanthoszine, that were given to participating donors were supposed to reverse the abstraction process, regrettably, had the opposite effect.
> 
> With the emotional and donor shortage, supplies are limited. To preserve what little resources we have, sacrifices must be made. For your convenience, designated rooms will be provided for people who wish to terminate their lives. We are willing and able to provide a calming and beautiful atmosphere for your last few moments on Earth.  While this little incident was extremely unfortunate, here at Pathogens Inc. we are always striving to improve your emotional and physical wellbeing.
> 
> Thank you for your cooperation and understanding,
> 
> Morbius Snide
> 
> Chairman, President, and CEO

* * *

 

           What was the point anymore? Why continue to fight when there truly was no point now. The emptiness was all consuming. What does it matter?

 **The Spring of ‘95** consisted of a staggering, all-time high for suicide and crime rates. Underground harvesting rings manifested, seemingly, overnight. Children, adults, and the elderly were used for emotion harvesting to create a pseudo artificial emotion that would produce a higher profit rate. These lethal, pseudo emotions were being sold on the streets and overdosing was considered a humane way to go. Protesters redoubled their efforts against Pathogens Incorporated.

In July of that same year, the leader of the activists achieved over 100,000 signatures on their petition to remove and destroy every model and prototype of the Pathos Eradicator, begrudgingly, the company agreed with their demands and the Pathos Eradicator was destroyed. However, in retaliation, violence erupted when members of the Pathogens staff lashed out against one of the campaigners. This resulted in a drastic change. The carnage was devastating. Millions of people were murdered and many more perished when an explosion was detonated inside of Pathogens. Years of research destroyed. Thousands of lives lost. Nevertheless, the machines were finally gone.

One hundred years’ worth of devastation; a century of violence and pain should be enough proof that emotions are needed for functioning members of society. Right? If the last one hundred years is anything to go off of, living without emotions is an extremely destructive way to live. What sick, twisted human being would ever want to operate without feeling anything at all?

However, just below the surface of all the activist groups trying to shut down Pathogen Inc., there began a whisper. Just the barest hint of a sound. Suddenly, there was a spike in Artificial Emotion usage, but how could this be? The machines were destroyed. Schematics burned in the fires. Police officers are completely baffled. An Underground Ring seemed to spring up overnight, but no one could get to the leader. This vast web of individualized networks seemed to spread across the globe in a matter of hours. Who was this mysterious person? What was their end game? Most importantly, what could be done to stop them?


	2. Apathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T.W. for this chapter: violence, character death, bullying, drug use(?),  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to its respective owners.

 

On January 6 th , 1976, Mycroft Holmes was first introduced to his younger brother William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and, truth be told, Mycroft was unimpressed. There, cradled in Wanda’s (otherwise known as Mummy) arms was this squirming bundle of tiny appendages topped with ringlets of dark, ebony curls. The eldest Holmes son scrunches his nose up in distaste, ‘ _ Really,’ _ Mycroft thought,  _ ‘If Mummy wants something that excretes waste, sleeps, and cries we could get a puppy.’ _ However, despite Mycroft’s pleas to take the squirming bundle back to the hospital in exchange for a pet, Mummy would not comply. Instead, she ruffles his auburn hair and promises him that his feelings would eventually change.

“Just wait ‘till you’re older, dear; things will be different. Your little brother may end up being your best friend. However, if you never give him a chance, you’ll never have that.” She pauses for a moment and shifts the him so that Mycroft can see more clearly before continuing, “Having said that, would you like to hold him?” Mycroft gazes at his mother in fear and trepidation at her words. Wanda only giggles and beckons the young boy closer. Mycroft shuffles closer and peers down at the sleeping baby in his mother’s arms. Mummy gently places the tiny child into Mycroft’s timid grasp.

Mycroft peers down at the infant in slight fear until the small human opens his eyes. The elder Holmes brother gazes down in wonder into beautiful verdigris eyes and a bright smile spills across Mycroft’s face when Sherlock’s eyes crinkle at the corners and a bright smile breaks out across his face.

“See, Mikey! He likes you!” Mummy joyfully proclaims. The elder Holmes shoots a brief smile to his mother before looking back at his younger brother and says, “He’s so small…” Mummy smiles at Mycroft’s reverent expression and states, “Yes, he is, but he’ll grow. Before you know it, he’ll be big enough to play with. But until then, we have to take good care of him so he can grow to be big and strong.”

Suddenly, Mycroft’s head whips around to stare at his mother with tears in his eyes. Despite being only at the tender age of seven, Mycroft understands that people get sick and die. The thought that death could come to his little brother genuinely terrifies the elder Holmes brother.

“What can I do to help, Mummy?” Wanda’s brow furrows at the usually stoic child’s uncharacteristic attitude before drawing her two sons closer to comfort her eldest son, “Mikey, you’ve just got to look after him. Your job as a big brother means that you have to protect him. Most importantly, you would have to love him, or none of the other aspect of the job will ever come to pass.” She dries Mycroft’s tears and with a determined nod, Mycroft vows to be the best big brother he could ever be. ‘ _ I’ll always protect you, Sherlock. I promise.’ _

Things don’t always go to plan, though. In the years to follow, Mycroft tries his best, but the age difference made looking after Sherlock difficult. The elder Holmes spent most of his time in school and when he was home, he was working on homework. However, there were times where Mycroft would be free and Sherlock would shyly brandish two wooden swords and ask, “Myc, will you play with me?”

The elder Holmes would gaze down into hopeful verdigris eyes and his heart would melt. Captain Black-eyed Bill and his first mate Cutthroat Myc sail the seven seas looking for glory and pirate booty. Black-eyed Bill and Cutthroat Myc would have falling outs just as all siblings are wont to do. The wars between the two would always be legendary on both fronts. Disagreements lead to name-calling and spewed insults, which would result in slammed doors and a teary-eyed Sherlock. Usually, both brothers would eventually apologize and they would go back to sailing the seven seas as if nothing happened.

However, that all changes the day that Sherlock begins school. Sherlock arrives home that afternoon, excited about the things he experienced and saw. He found the other children fascinating, if not incredibly simple, and he boisterously proclaims how easy he found the material. Due to his intelligence he found the subject material incredibly dull and he did not connect with any of the other children. He did not make any friends the first day of school, but he is not worried! He went on to say that he was sure that he would make at least one person like him. He finishes telling Mycroft his story by proclaiming that he has finished all the homework and classwork for the next week, Mycroft has had enough.

He is tired after his long day of extra-curricular work, schoolwork, homework, dealing with the moronic people in his class, and to top it off, he had a raging headache. He was at his wits end. Sherlock’s insistent chatter just made matters worse. Perhaps that is why Mycroft said what he did as he finally snaps out, “Oh, please, Sherlock. Why should any of those buffoons matter? Caring isn’t an advantage. The other kids will never like you. They will only ever cheat you and use you. Don’t pretend you’re clever. We both know I’m the clever one. Face the facts. You’ll never be as smart as I am. Stop deluding yourself and grow up!”

By the time Mycroft finishes his tirade he turns away, panting in misplaced anger, as he waits for Sherlock to retaliate, as per usual, after one of their little rows. When Sherlock does not deliver his own childlike insult, Mycroft finally turns his head and stares at his little brother. The sight before him causes him to catch his breath.

Instead of the proud, euphoric expression Sherlock once wore, his little body now shaking with barely contained sobs and twin tear tracks stream down Sherlock’s face. Mycroft feels a stab of regret and guilt as he briefly tries to reach out and comfort his little brother. A murmured, “Sherlock” manages to escape but with that, the ebony haired boy bolts out of Mycroft’s room and into his own before the elder Holmes could even blink.

When Mycroft heard the door slam, he quickly stood up from his desk and rushes next door to try and make up for what he had done, but the door was firmly locked. No matter what he says or how hard he knocks, the door will not budge and Sherlock refuses to open the door.

Mummy is not expected to return home for several more hours and Mr. Holmes is away on a business trip. Normally, this would not be a problem. The Holmes family lives very comfortably, and Mrs. Holmes makes sure her boys are taken care of while she is away. Normally, Mycroft and Sherlock are able to finish their days in peace. Normally…Mycroft has not made his brother feel so poorly.

When Wanda finally arrives home, she speaks to the maids and cook to discover that neither Mycroft nor Sherlock has eaten anything from the moment they had arrived home after school. Come to think of it, Sherlock didn’t run to meet her as he normally would. Becoming slightly worried, she roams the hallways looking for her two boys, but stops when she notices Mycroft sitting outside his brother’s door, fast asleep, with a plate of food resting in his slackened grip. She could deduce from his furrowed brow, sleeping location, and the way he fidgets in his sleep that something is wrong. She softly steps around her eldest son and tests the door to find it locked. She frowns to herself for a moment before waking up Mycroft and guiding him to his room. When Mycroft arrives safely back in bed, she goes briefly to her own room, grabs a key, and walks back to her youngest son’s door. She inserts the key and, as quietly as she can, opens the door. It is late and, as expected, Sherlock is asleep. What is unusual is the tear tracks that staining his angular face. As she approaches and perches on the edge of his bed she notices more signs of distress. She needs to talk to both of her sons in the morning. Mycroft has obviously said something to hurt his brother. Despite what others may think, both of her sons care so much more than they let on. Especially Sherlock.

She pets his dark curls and kisses his forehead and softly closes Sherlock’s door. She pauses momentarily before following the hallways back to her room. When she finally falls asleep, an hour later, she does not sleep well. Her concern for her boys transfers over into her dreams. When she awakes the next morning, she determinedly walks into the kitchen to find her elder son sitting alone with his head in his hands. Before she could speak, Mycroft says, “I’ve been trying to apologize all morning but I overslept and I didn’t know he had departed. I messed up, Mummy. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Shock slowly spreads across her face as she takes in Mycroft’s worried expression, but she stifles her own worry in order to ask what he has done. When he finishes his recount of events her anger must have shown because Mycroft’s expression turns to sorrow. Knowing that her eldest son was having a bad morning too, she pulls him into a hug and says, “I know you feel bad, and, in all honesty, you should. You’ve got to fix this, Mikey. You’ve really hurt your brother’s feelings and he needs you now.” She squeezes him tightly before letting him go and kisses his forehead in a goodbye. As she leaves, Mycroft waits for a moment to decide what he might do. Before he leaves for school, he retrieves Sherlock’s pirate gear and his wooden swords in order to be ready for Sherlock’s return. He will apologize and they will play pirates together just as before and if that did not work, they could play deductions. With that thought in mind, Mycroft allows himself to smile again as he asks the family driver to take him to school.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft arrives home first, and he begins to gather everything for their games. He grabs the hated eye patch and puts it on, sheathes his sword, rolls his pants up to his knees, puts his red and white striped bandana on, and he gets into position. However, as the hours pass, Mycroft first feels crestfallen that Sherlock didn’t show up and then worried when the second hour passes without his appearance.

When Sherlock arrives home after school, three hours behind schedule, the elder Holmes brother knew that something terrible had happened. Instead of the usual ball of energetic, wild, black curls dashing by in a blur, Mycroft was met by a bloodied and bruised little genius.

As Sherlock notices his big brother his eyes well up with tears and he whispers a, “You were right.” Mycroft could only watch as Sherlock ascends the stairs, at a slower rate than usual, in order to go into his room and close the door. Mycroft ran to get a phone and calls his mother’s cellphone number. Their mother rushes home and all but ran to her younger son’s room. She opens the door and her eyes fill with tears as she gently cradles the younger boy in her arms. When she finally gets Sherlock to tell her what happened, she immediately takes action. She begins calling parents and talking to school officials. The other children get into trouble and Sherlock is removed from that class.

Nevertheless, the damage is done. Sherlock goes to his new school, takes every honors program that they offer, and he refuses to talk to the other students unless it’s to shout insults or spout deductions. He doesn’t make any friends because he doesn’t need any of them. Caring is not an advantage. He is far too clever for them anyway. When he comes home from school, he no longer grabs his pirate gear, and he no longer asks Mycroft to play with him anymore.

Mycroft is going off to University. Who is going to keep the bullies at bay? Mycroft wasn’t around much, but despite Sherlock saying he was  _ fine _ , Mycroft would still secretly keep the other mean boys away. Who is going to play deductions with him? He is leaving Sherlock all alone. What was he going to do now? Even though Sherlock knows he’s being selfish, he still begs Mycroft to stay. He won’t admit it, but Mycroft’s departure makes him feel so isolated.

For the first week, the youngest Holmes stays in his room, working on grotesque experiments, of some sort, when he is not in school. Finally, when even Mycroft has had enough, he arrives home for the weekend and he formulates a plan that details what needs to be done to help Sherlock. Two weeks later, Sherlock becomes the proud owner of a little red and black bloodhound puppy. From that day onward, Sherlock and Redbeard are inseparable. Once again, Sherlock has someone to go on adventures with. When Sherlock had to go to school, Redbeard would wait patiently by the door. Redbeard was Sherlock’s best friend, and they loved each other very much. 

Together the two played many games together throughout Mycroft’s time away from home and for the first year of Sherlock’s own first year of university. The youngest Holmes found a flat that allows pets and the, now fully grown, bloodhound went with him. Everyone at school hated Sherlock, he was constantly belittled and bullied by Sebastian Wilkes and Victor Trevor, but as long as he had his best friend, he was all right. A lot of the other people around him were still using synthetic emotions, but he had no need for them. He was happy.

During his third year at school, Sherlock decided, one evening after class, to take his beloved companion for a walk. They leave the flat together and go to the park. There, they play together for hours until the sun begins to set. It is well after dark when they finally set off for home. It is because of that that Sherlock doesn’t notice Sebastian and Victor following close behind.

It all happened so quickly. One minute Sherlock was calmly walking back to the flat and the next he was on the ground being beaten by the two larger men. Blows rain down on various parts of Sherlock’s body. He tried to fight back, and he manages to get a few good blows in, but the fight was unfair. He feels the blood pooling in his mouth and down his face as one eye begins to close shut. Redbeard, unsure of whether or not this is all just a game, whimpers in uncertainty. It isn’t until he heard Sherlock’s choked gasp in pain that the bloodhound reacted, growled, and lunged at the attackers.

To this day, Sherlock does not know whether Seb or Victor pulled out the gun, but he can still hear the snarled, “Just put that damn dog down,” and a shot that rang out clearly as if it were happening all over again twenty years later. He can still clearly remember a single pained whine and a heavy thump as a lifeless body hits the ground when his beloved dog is murdered right in front of him. The two men curse and flee when they realize the shot gains unwanted attention from other families around the park.

He wants to reach out to Redbeard. He wants to call his name, and he wants the bloodhound lift his head as if he had only been pretending to sleep. He wants this all to be some terrible mistake. He wants to curse and scream and cry because why did they have to take his best friend away from him? He doesn’t want any of this to be a reality, but as he picks up his best friend’s lifeless body, he can feel the blood seeping into his clothes and he knows it to be true. He allows himself to scream then. He clutches the dog tightly against his chest and sobs into the dog’s neck as he would any other time the world had been unfair or unkind, but this time it is so much worse. This time, he has lost the single most important thing in his life.

He doesn’t know how long he sits holding Redbeard’s lifeless body, but the tears have long since extinguished and someone is urging him to his feet, which is just absurd. How could he leave? How could he, after all this time, leave his best friend behind?

Mycroft stands directly in front of Sherlock in order to distract him long enough and to block his vision as members of the police take Redbeard’s body away. An orange blanket is placed on Sherlock shoulders and paramedics look over the damage his attackers brought to his body. Instead of his usual brutality and an unceremonious declaration of an I’m  _ fine,  _ Sherlock remains docile. As the paramedics finish, Mycroft gently draws his brother in an embrace and for a moment, he thinks that Sherlock will lash out and brush him off. Maybe that would have been preferable. Anger would have been better than the limp form that leans in the elder Holmes’ arms as soon as he touches his younger brother.

Mycroft’s worry only grows as he leads the younger Holmes to his car and drives them to his own house without hearing a single complaint from his brother. When they step through the door together, Sherlock finally looks at Mycroft, with unfocused eyes, only to declare; “I think I’ll go to bed now, Myc. Thank you for giving me a ride.” The eldest Holmes brother’s red flags raised in alarm, but Sherlock disappears into the guest room before he can do anything about them.

He truly wanted to stay awake and he nearly does. Mycroft makes a valiant effort, but around 4 a.m. he falls asleep while staring at the guest room’s door. Sherlock, having long since mastered the art of escaping his bed without detection, easily leaves his room and escapes down Mycroft’s long hallway to the front door. Just as the younger Holmes reaches a hand out to open the door, something on the entry table catches his eye.

There, under a discarded heap of several coins and a set of car keys, sits an edition of  _ The Sun _ which reads “ **SYNTHETIC CRIME ARRIVES DURING SPRING OF ’95”** . Upon further inspection, Sherlock quickly reads the brief article description that describes how emotions are being sold illegally on the streets. He had been told throughout his entire life to stay away from the synthetic emotions. Mummy had always had a sinking suspicion that Pathogens Incorporated wasn’t what it appeared to be and Sherlock had diligently listened.... until now. With a destination in mind, he carelessly drops the paper and exits his brother’s home.

Honestly, it should not have been that easy to find an illegal synthetic den. If Sherlock had been in the right frame of mind, he would have laughed at how absurdly uncomplicated it all was, but he doesn’t. He only pockets the prohibited substance, turns up the collar on his Belstaff coat, and exits the darkened alleyway.

He arrives back at his flat and his first thought is to call Redbeard to him, but he knows that he can’t. This only reaffirms his decision for him. He strips out of his blood soaked shirt and throws it away without staring at it for too long. He takes off his belt and quickly tightens it around his arm in a makeshift tourniquet. His hands begin to shake and his eyes fill with tears at the realization that he had always found people who used synesthetic emotions to be weak, desperate, and spineless.If they would just observe, there would be no  _ need  _ for synthetics! He stayed away from this sort of life because he knew he could be better, but now he realizes that in all reality, he is no different. He isn’t strong or clever enough.

He fills the syringe from a glass bottle filled with a grey substance and then he is positioning the needle tip against his inner elbow as tears stream down his face. He is terrified. Briefly, he considers turning back, throwing the needle onto the ground, and crushing it with his shoe. That's what he should do. He knows that, but deep down, he knows he can't. He can't keep living this way. Caring isn't an advantage. He knows this, yet his head chose not to listen, and now his heart must pay.

He grits his teeth as the needle pierces his flesh. His hands tremble as he moves his thumb to push the plunger down. He pauses to take one shuddering breath, chokes back a sob, steels himself, and suddenly he is injecting apathy.

_ 'Just little bit,' _ he thinks,  _ 'Just enough to take this pain away for a few hours.' _ He repeats this mantra as he silently begs for quick release until he can feel, one by one, all emotion drain away. Fear briefly consumes him as he feels all emotion begin to fade, but it passes quickly enough as the entire does is injected. His features slowly morph from anguish to this blank, haunting, expression. Beautiful verdigris eyes, which belied intelligence and were once so clear and bright, now gloss over in vacancy. Sherlock mechanically brings one hand up to wipe away the tears that were falling less than 30 seconds ago due to an unimaginable grief, but now...

Now he feels nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you read the Prologue, I congradulate you! Bravo!
> 
> Anyway, onto the special thanks portion of these notes.
> 
> Special thanks to:  
>  QueenLadyAnne  
>  Hateya W.  
>  ccwritessometimes  
>  Pinterest for the writing prompt that lead to this story ("In a world where emotions are considered drugs, your family has sat you down to talk about your addiction to joy," and "You live in a wrold in which you can buy bottled emotions.") I took this prompt in a very odd place.  
>  Kayleigh B.  
>  Emma F.  
>  Victoria (Mia) Grayson (she was the brilliant individual that helped me come up with the story title! It was so clever that I freaked out when she said it)  
>  and last but not least,  
>  Bailey N.
> 
> Each of these lovely individuals listened to me rant, rave, and talk about this story for DAYS on end. They each have read, reread, and read some more just because I asked and for that, I am so thankful. So, THANK YOU SO MUCH!! This story has been in the making for a long time, and without these people, it would not have been possible. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. :)
> 
> Also...There are certain things in this story that were determined from the very beginning. Certian things I wanted from the start. Without giving too much away, I want to say the words, Betrayal, Love, and Joy. These words and these chapters assosiated with these words have elements in them that were planned from the start.  
> ********  
> Two chapters in one day! Don't get used to it! It will not happen very often. I wanted to post both, though, because I am giving you the option so that you don't have to read the Prologue. 
> 
> Anyway...Poor Sherlock! It's not going to get better for awhile, guys. It's going to hurt, but I promise things do eventually get better :). I hope you enjoyed it! I'm having a blast writing it :D
> 
> I promise next chapter's notes won't be nearly this long.


	3. Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The day John Hamish Watson’s life began, his mother’s tragically ended."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter: character death, Child Abuse, Homophobic Language, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug use (sorta? It's hard to know what to tag with this thing, to be honest)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.

March 31st, 1972 starts out like any other normal day. Marideth Watson knew that any day now she would be welcoming her second baby into the world, and she was so excited! As her contractions start, however, the excitement ebbs a bit. Today was the day. Geoffrey Watson had already prepared an overnight bag for Marideth, and their toddler named Harriet is staying with her grandmother. The two adults load into the car and Geoffrey makes the short trip to the hospital. Once there, doctors and nurses quickly grab a wheelchair and whisk Mrs. Watson away and into a room to check up on her periodically. Everything seemed to be going well. Everything seemed fine.  

Everything was not fine.

This day was supposed to be joyous and exciting. This day was meant to be filled with happy tears and warm, broad smiles. This day contained none of those things. The day John Hamish Watson’s life began, his mother’s tragically ended.

It was all very logical. It had to do with the amniotic fluid escaping into Marideth’s body which then caused all of her organs to begin failing. The doctor told of Marideth’s brave sacrifice. She gave her own life to bring her son into the world. Everything made sense. Geoffrey could follow and understand everything the doctors were saying. This, however, did not stop the all-encompassing sense of grief and rage he felt at his wife’s premature death. What was he to do now? His wife is gone. He now has to raise two children on his own.

 

* * *

He provided the bare minimum amount of care for his children. Most of the time, Mr. Watson left John and Harry with Marideth’s mother, Beatrice, as he disappeared for days at a time. When Mr. Watson would finally return home, he would drop in on the children long enough to give Beatrice insufficient funds to feed, clothe, and take care of children before driving to the nearest pub to drink away the majority of his money. This would continue for four years.

John, now five, and Harry, a rambunctious six-year-old, lived happily with their grandmother until she became ill and perished that same year. Mr. Watson arrives at the funeral—completely sloshed—to pick up his children. The grieving children silently cry in the taxi on the way to their new home. When they finally arrive, Mr. Watson walks into his home and promptly passes out on the couch leaving the two children bereft and alone. Everything they knew and loved was gone. Everything they had was placed in two large suitcases. Life as they knew it was over. Harry turned to John and envelops him in a warm hug and whispers, “Shh, Johnny, it’ll be alright. We’ll be okay. He’s our Da, yeah? He’ll take care of us! Everything is going to be alright, just you wait and see!”

John turns, big, doleful eyes on Harriet and sniffles, “Do you think so?”

“Of course! We’re going to be just fine!” Harriet answers with a confident smile.

But that wasn’t to be the case. Both of his children were too young to understand why their father only seemed to have two moods, anger and grief. It was two months later that Mr. Watson first lay hands on the two siblings. While Harriet got the brunt of harsh words, John seemed to take most of the physical violence. The children just do not understand why hands that are supposed to wipe away tears are causing them so much pain. Father's aren't supposed to do this, right? Was this normal?

 

Their first year at primary school told them that the answer was a resounding **no**. Other children go home safely to fathers they don't have to hide from in fear. They could rest safely knowing their fathers would protect them and love them. The Watson's had no such luxury. Maybe at some point, their father had loved them, but they could not sense it when bruises constantly littered their frail bodies.

 

Mr. Watson somehow always retained the mental capacity to hide the evidence of his abuse. Even under the influence of alcohol, he knew to aim harsh hands under clothing. Teachers never called home. Problem solved.

 

That is until Mr. Watson receives a note home from Harry’s year six teacher when she was caught kissing another girl behind the bleachers at school. He flew into a fit of rage. He viciously grabs Harry’s hair, pulling out several strands in the process, and begins slurring homophobia mercilessly. John arrives home and finds them likes this only minutes after Harry’s own arrival moments before. Being terrified of his father, but wanting to protect his sister, John cautiously goes up to his father as requests politely for Harriet’s freedom. He lets her go, throwing her to the ground in the process, walks over to John and crowds him against the wall, as he replies, “Why, because you’re a fucking faggot, too? Are you going to grow up to be a cocksucker now? You’re just a gay faggot, aren’t you?” With tears in his eyes, John replies, “N-no, I’m not!” Mr. Watson sees red. As he raises his voice, with a, “Don’t you dare back talk me,” he raises his hand and aggressively cuffs John across the face. The sound echoes around the room and the door slams with Mr. Watson’s departure. John collapses against the floor in tears as Harry crawls over to him.

 

“Shh, Johnny. It’ll be alright. Things will be alright. It’s alright.” She doesn’t know who she is trying to convince more.

 

* * *

 

John finds his own voice at the age of fifteen. Maybe he heard a story in school about a dashing hero, a protector of those who could not protect themselves, or maybe he was just tired of all the abuse. Regardless of the why, when Mr. Watson raised his hand to hurt Harry in a fit of rage, John quickly dashed between the two, raises two striking, dark blue eyes up at their father in defiance, and brandishes an imaginary shield in an attempt to protect his older sister. In Mr. Watson's rage, he strikes John's outstretched arm too hard and an audible pop is barely heard over John's agonized cry. Tears immediately spring to the fifteen-year old's eyes as the skin begins to rapidly swell and bruise. Realizing his mistake, Mr. Watson become acutely aware of his sobbing sixteen and fifteen-year-old children huddled together, one in fear and the other in pain as they try their best to look as small as possible.

 

Mr. Watson turned murderous eyes on his children, as if they were the ones at fault, and quickly turn around and slam the door as he exits. As soon as John finally allows on painful whimper to escape past tightly clamped lips as Harry tries to comfort her brother. Past her own tears, Harry manages to stutter out, “C-come on, Johnny. We need to get you out of here.” The two teenagers stumble out of their decaying home in search of help.

 

By some saving grace, a patrolling police car stops them to question the two teens on why they were out at such a late hour. They quickly explain what had transpired that evening and soon, they were off to the hospital to fix John’s broken arm. Hours later, arm just recently set in a blue cast, an officer arrives to take the teenagers’ statements. It was only then that the two children finally reveal the extent of their guardian’s abuse. With a little coaxing, John and Harry slowly display the dark patches of deep blue and purple.

 

As dawn breaks, a warrant for Geoffrey Watson’s arrest is issued immediately, and his children are being escorted to a relative’s house to stay until they can find a more stable home. As expected, the police found Mr. Watson at a local bar drinking his money and life away. Mr. Watson was found guilty a year later and he is expected to serve up to ten years with the possibility of parole after five. Eventually, they managed to secure a permanent home with their mother’s sister, and were quite happy for four years. The siblings eventually set out to seek their own fortune, bid each other luck, and part ways joyfully.

 

John, an aspiring, promising army surgeon advancing in rank in the military, is content with life. His constant need for adrenaline is being sated and he finally feels useful! After years of being belittled and beaten, he has found his place in the world as a healer and a protector for hundreds of lives daily. He had just successfully performed an amputation surgery on a soldier who was shot critically in the leg when a fellow soldier walks up and hands him a letter. Harry had been sending John letters weekly throughout his deployment for one consistent month, but gradually the letters slowed until they abruptly stopped all together. He knew Harry was getting his letters, though. Clara, Harriet’s long-term girlfriend would send correspondences in Harry’s place, but the younger Watson could tell that something was wrong. When he would question Clara, she would brush it off as nothing. For one year this persisted until John receives this current letter from Clara detailing what exactly had been going on for the past year of John’s deployment. Her letter is smudged in several places as if something wet had fallen onto the page as the ink were drying. John absently mindedly realizes she had been crying. With a sense of dread, he reads the shaky scrawl.

 

In Clara’s letter, John reads of Harry’s self-destruction and alcoholism. The distraught Clara details how she put Harriet through several courses of rehab with the promise of success only for Harriet to relapse a month later. An ultimatum was then given: Clara or the booze. Surprisingly, Harriet stopped drinking. She promised not to touch the stuff, and so far, she had been truthful. The problem now lies in the fact that Harriet is now taking artificial emotions.

 

To cope with the pain of her past and all the hell she had gone through, Harry combats the negativity with synthetic joy. For a while, Clara didn’t notice a difference in Harry’s mood. Harry had always been affectionate and happy with Clara before the alcohol, so nothing, at first, seemed amiss. However, when the couple had attended a funeral and Harry giggled and smiled around the grieving family, Clara finally picked up that something was wrong. When Harriet overdosed on the emotion that cemented the idea. Clara knew that her marriage was in shambles. She had stayed because she had hoped that after Harry stopped drinking, Clara had hoped that her wife would return to the person she had fallen in love with, but now, things looked too bleak. As the letter continues, Clara expresses her sorrow and grief at losing her wife to yet again to another form of addictive substance. She concludes with a desperate plea for John’s assistance.

 

With a little persuading, John manages to get two weeks leave from his commanding officer to take care of a personal issue at home. When his feet finally touched English soil, he immediately traveled to Harry and Clara’s home to see about his sister. Harriet…was not doing well. Clara’s face is twisted in agony as she takes in her wife’s disheveled and pale face. As soon as Harriet saw her little brother, she giggled madly, rushed forward to envelop her Johnnie in a tight embrace, but missed and stumbled over her own feet. She giggled once more as John caught her around the waist to steady her, and as she raised her head, John noticed her pupils were the size of pinpricks.

 

John stares at her, face blankly, for a moment longer until he says an emotionless, “Right,” and gently coaxes Harriet into bed. He looks at her for a moment longer before walking back out to comfort Clara. He gives her a sympathetic hug and inquires, “Alright?” Clara begins to nod, but she begins crying all over again and quickly shakes her head no. John softly sighs, hugs her a bit tighter, and tries to comfort her.  


As the two weeks slowly pass, Harry slowly gets better. The withdrawal pains begin the next day and Harriet writhes around on the bed in seemingly agony as the synthetic emotion slowly exits her body. Once she had successfully expelled all of the traces of the drug from her system, the cravings set in. Suddenly, she _needed_ synthetic happiness. She would burst into tears at the thought of going without it, but eventually, Harriet got better. She was more of herself than she had been in years, albeit a bit more depressed than before, but that was nothing Clara couldn’t handle. Clara was ecstatic about gaining her wife back. The alcohol and synthetic drugs put such a heavy strain on their marriage, but now things were finally looking up. When John’s two weeks leave finally ended, both Clara and the younger Watson felt confident in Harriet’s recovery. They knew the road ahead would be a hard one, for everyone involved, but with love and support, they could succeed.

 

So, John returns back to the military and school to further pursue his career as an army surgeon. After he finishes all of his courses, he is finally a certified military physician. After the small ceremony concludes, his commander comes up to him to talk about shipping him off to Afghanistan for the next 8 years. John, excitingly agrees. He doesn’t know what will happen in that time period, but he is extremely happy with all of the doors that have opened up for him.

 

* * *

 

War is absolutely hell. Hell doesn’t even begin to accurately describe all the pain, suffering, and grief he has felt at every death of each and every member of his team he has lost. At the age of 33, he has seen enough death and destruction to last a lifetime. Some nights he has trouble sleeping. He can still see each and every one of their faces. Each and every one begging God to end their suffering.

 

At this point, he has earned the title of Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It was on one mission that everything changed. John was kneeling down to patch up a fallen, wounded soldier, when suddenly a burning, white-hot, searing pain spreads throughout his entire body, radiating from his shoulder. As his vision slowly begins to fade, he hears shouting in the distance and running footfalls. His last, conscious thought is, ‘ _Please God, let me live._ ’

 

When John was conscious, he was extremely delirious or in excruciating pain. Unbeknownst to the now ex-army doctor, it would take nearly a year to gain stability enough to be flown back to London. As his 36th birthday neared, Clara visited him in the hospital in tears. “J-John, we didn’t hear w-word, and…and Harry she….” Clara sobs.

 

Increasingly alarmed now, John panics and inquires, “Harry? Clara, what’s wrong?! What happened?”

 

“She’s...she’s gone, John. She’s dead.”

 

The ex-army physician stares at his sister-in-law uncomprehendingly for a total of 30 seconds before he notices his vision is swimming and the odd noises he hears is coming from him in the form of sobs. He manages to choke out, “Wha—how? She was fine just a week ago!” Clara’s tears don’t stop, but her face crumbles as she replies, “John, you’ve been gone for a year! We… _I_ didn’t hear anything from you or about you until just recently. An officer came by and said that you were shot…Harry couldn’t take it. She thought she knew what it meant when another soldier arrived at the door...She stormed off before she heard that you would be okay…I—I found her the next morning in the bathroom. She was so, so pale. Her skin looked blue, and I just…I knew.” Here she pauses momentarily to compose herself, unsuccessfully, before continuing, “Later, the mortician stated that Harry overdosed on synthetic happiness.” Clara’s face morphs into a tight, agonized expression as she chokes out, “I had to _bury_ her, John! All on my own. I just… I get so fucking angry sometimes. She _left_ me, John. She left and she took the best parts of me with her. How…how could she do this to me?”

 

Having lost any remaining fight in her, Clara collapses against John’s hospital bed. The injured man quickly sits up and envelops her the best way he can with his uninjured arm. Both stay silent as they grieve the loss of their cherished loved one.

 

After what feels like an eternity, and most of the tears have stopped, Clara slowly extracts herself carefully from John’s grasp still sniffling. She slowly reaches into her purse and extracts a sleek, silver mobile phone and extends her arm for John to take the small device.

 

“Here, John. I-I want you to have this. I-I can’t…I just can’t keep this anymore. Harry would want you to have it anyway. She wanted to surprise you with a new phone for your birthday anyway. It seems only fitting that you just take this one,” she states, refusing to look at John in case the tears return at full force. John tries to refuse, but Clara quickly tramples that down with, “I…I just can’t look at it anymore, John. Please?” Begrudgingly, John nods his acceptance.

 

They stare at each other at a loss. What could they say to make this hurt any less? What can they do to stop this all-encompassing sense of grief they both feel? Eventually, Clara slowly collects her things and makes for the exit. Before she can completely leave the small, sterile hospital room, she hears a quiet, “Please, take care of yourself, Clara.” Without turning around, she quietly replies, “You too, John,” as she departs.

 

One grief-filled month later, John was finally discharged out of the hospital with orders to visit a psychiatrist, but, what is he to do now? He has no purpose, no family, no life here in London. He has nothing anymore.

 

He still doesn’t know how he’s made it to 38. His flat is too small and dismal at best. With an army pension, one can’t afford London. His life is so dull and grey. Cleaning his gun used to be a mandatory, quick affair, but now he finds himself lingering. His thoughts drift to darker areas, and putting the gun back in his desk drawer gets harder and harder every day. His therapist wants him to start a blog, but, really, ‘ _Nothing happens to me.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have a confession. 
> 
> I've finished this story completely long before season 4 aired. What that means is that this is not season 4 compliant. However, what this does not mean is that you will get chapters any quicker than you are getting them, which I am terrible sorry for, but my betas and I all have lives that we must attend to and thus, we can't get these out any quicker than they are coming. I hate to say that, and I am sorry if that sounds terribly mean, but with school starting once more, I will have very little time to make corrections and the like. I hope you like the story, though! As always, thank you to QueenLadyAnne, CCwritessometimes, and Hateya W. These lovely betas all work with me to make this story into something I believe is special. I hope you like it! We will try to post Saturdays, but like this week, sometimes that just won't happen. 
> 
> On to the actual notes (I promise not to make them terrible long ^_^;), First of all, you may be thinking, "HOW CAN YOU KILL OFF HARRY?! SHE'S STILL IN THE STORIES!" Well, she furthers the plot later on, she's not very, terribly important to this story other than the fact she furthers plot. Secondly, goodness, I've hurt John a lot this chapter. It's not going to get better for awhile. Last but not least, fun fact, I got the dates (I just googled when their birthdays are. Sherlock's birthday is actually celebrated by fans on the 6th of January--happy belated birthday to my favorite cinnamon roll--John's birthday I got from google) and the character's parents name come from their actual parents.
> 
> Next chapter, our boys finally meet! We're going to see some of their cases (just rehashing the same stuff we've seen) and a little more about how we feel about each other. :)


	4. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally meet!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of drug use.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.

He somehow managed to fly below Mycroft’s radar for ten years after graduating University, but that changes on one colder day in September. He had been too careless. Too reckless. His fixed solution of apathy just wasn’t cutting it anymore. The apathy would fade in the span of hours instead of the days it used to take to clear his system. He increased the dosage, and just like any sort of drug, he pushed past the limits his body could take. He overdosed.

 

That’s how Mycroft found him. Members of the Paris police force discovered a catatonic man covered in his own sick, shallowly breathing, in a darkened alleyway along the streets. At this point, he was nearly unrecognizable; his hair was too long, matted, and covered in debris and filth, his clothing was in shambles, his face—which was already contorted by sharp angles—became even more pronounced by the younger man’s sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes. Mycroft’s face screws up in sorrow briefly before he smoothes out his features in an impassive mask as he finally transfers his gaze from his brother to the officers on duty. 

 

“Release him,” Mycroft insists. 

 

However, one of the sergeants tries to object, “Sir, we can’t do that. You can’t just walk in here and expect—.”

 

“You’ll find that I can,” comes a cool, detached reply. Just as the words escape past the eldest Holmes’ lips, the phone rings and after a brief conversation, Inspector Neidert walks in and says in exasperation, “We’ve been out ranked, boys. Let Holmes go.” For a moment, none of the officers move. They all stare at Inspector Neidert as if she had grown a second head, waiting for her to declare that this was all just a joke, but after a few seconds pass and the elder Holmes proceeds to only grow more and more exasperated, she finally gathers the keys herself and unlocks the door.

 

Mycroft walks into the cell and slings Sherlock’s arm around his neck and –somehow—gracefully drags Sherlock out. When they finally leave the station, to head to the airport, the eldest Holmes deposits the younger in the backseat and slides in beside the ebony haired man. The auburn haired man puts his head in his hands briefly and questions the unconscious man, “What am I going to do with you?” He, unfortunately, receives no reply.

 

When the private jet lands back in London, Sherlock’s unconscious form is placed into a small, white room for rehabilitation services. When he finally awakes, Sherlock takes only a moment to deduce where and why he is here and when he finally turns his gaze to his brother who remains impassive stoic by the door, he seethes out, “You cannot keep me here.” 

 

Mycroft stands straighter and pierces his little brother with an icy glare and sneers, “Yes, I can.”

 

Sherlock scoffs, “I’d like to see you try. I’ll just escape when you leave.” A smug, unkind smile spreads across the British Government’s face as he takes in Sherlock imperious tone.

 

Any hope of escape quickly leaves the intoxicated detective as the eldest Holmes begins to speak, “You will remain here for 90 days. You will be sedated through the detox period. I’ve estimated that it will take approximately two weeks to flush from your system. When that concludes, you will meet a man named Gregory Lestrade. He is a decent sergeant, but with your help, he could easily move up the ranks to Inspector Detective in no time. If at any point you do not comply, I will personally see to it that you are supervised nonstop for your 3 month stay here. And as for escaping, I don’t think that will be an issue.” Here, the pompous man glances at his watch and snarks as the door opens, “Ah, yes, right on time.” Mr. and Mrs. Holmes take that moment to enter into the room. 

 

“We came as fast as we heard the news from Mycroft. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what have you done to yourself?” Mummy demands with a mixture of distaste and agony in her voice. In lieu of answering, Sherlock glares at his older brother with so much malice and hatred because he knows he can’t get away now. Not when Mummy knows.

 

With a brief word to their mother and a curt farewell—which, honestly, wasn’t really heard over their mother’s constant scolding— Mycroft calmly walks out the door, exits the establishment, and gets into the black car waiting for him at the curb. As he leaves the rehab facility, he finally drops the act. He finally allows himself to feel the agony and misery of the day. He has to close his eyes at the image his mind throws up of his younger brother so close to death. Deep down he knows that Sherlock will probably never forgive him. He can understand that, though. Sherlock ran away to hid from the world. He didn’t want to feel anymore. He is just that small, heartbroken child from years ago who was once so happy, but the hope was destroyed by so many people. He just hopes that Sherlock will eventually understand why the British Government did what he did. Mycroft also knows that the next three months are going to be hellish. But he won’t give up. He will do anything he can for his younger brother.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Sherlock detoxes (he only tried to escape six times, thank you) and he meets Gavin?…Griffen?…Geoffry?… Lestrade and finds a use for science and deduction when he becomes the one and only Consulting Detective. He finally has something to keep his mind occupied, something that will stimulate his overactive mind. He still has dark days. Days where breathing, moving, or even functioning is nearly impossible, but he doesn’t go back to the apathy. He is better than that. He had a moment of weakness, but nothing more. He hardens his heart and refuses to let anyone in. He is no longer a scared teenager anymore. Caring isn’t an advantage and he  **won’t** let his heart get broken again.

 

That all changes the moment he meets John Hamish Watson on the 29 th of January, 2010. Unimposing and unassuming John Watson. He isn’t like everyone else, though. John didn’t instantly call him a freak like so many other people before him have. John is something so new and exciting. So, that is why Sherlock initially ignores the flashing ‘ **DANGER, DANGER** ’ signs going off in his mind as he offers an uncharacteristic wink and an address as he leaves Bart’s laboratory. What made this man so different? What made him so special already?

 

As the next day dawns, he tries not to let the dangerous beast called hope overtake his heart and mind, which he mostly succeeds at doing, but as the cab nears Baker Street, he can feel anxiety slowly consume him _. ‘What if he doesn’t show up? What if…he turns out to be just like everyone else? What if _ — _ ,’ _ all thoughts of that nature suddenly flee from his mind as he sees the limping ex-army doctor arrive at the same moment he does.

 

They just finish shaking hands as Mrs. Hudson greets them at the door and shows them up. After a brief moment of awkwardness concerning the  _ mess _ in the living room, John agrees to moves in! When Lestrade arrives with new case information, Sherlock realizes that this is the perfect opportunity to impress John with his intelligence. He somehow manages to do just that in the cab ride by deducing his newly acquired phone and at the crime scene. He was wrong about John having a brother. There’s always  _ something _ , but if John’s endless praise is anything to go by, he must not mind too much. . There is one alarming moment where John’s face contorts dangerously into something utterly  _ sad _ , but it quickly passes. Sherlock is too distracted by the prospect of a new case to focus on it for too long. The impossibly, ridiculous man sweeps around the body gracefully as he takes in every clue that everyone else seems to always miss. Deductions jump out at him from the body as he takes in every minute detail. After a moment of silence, Lestrade gruffly asks, Got anything?”   
  


The Consulting Detective smiles to himself just briefly before turning to Lestrade and mumbles nonchalantly, “Not much.” He then stands and begins to type on his phone. He slams the door in Anderson’s face when he makes a ludicrously, idiotic comment and begins checking the UK weather. After dismissing Lestrade’s incorrect deductive reasoning, Sherlock, once more, smiles before and pockets the phone.

 

He allows John to make a point to Lestrade before standing and turning to face his audience. He then proceeds to astound his newest companion with his brilliance.

 

Suddenly, after, yet again, more praise falls past the blond man’s lips, Sherlock suddenly has a damning piece of evidence. “ **PINK** !” In his excitement, he realizes only after he found the case and arrives back at Baker Street, that he has left John behind. After an hour passes and John still hasn’t returned, the ebony haired genius decides to try and text his new-flatmate to coax him back home. Apparently, his goading words are enough. John arrives back home shortly thereafter, but the ex-army doctor explains that he was abducted by  _ the enemy _ . No matter, Mycroft obviously couldn’t run him off, because he is still here.

 

At dinner, a bit later, Sherlock has to forcefully remind himself that  **caring is not an advantage** as John tries to flirt with him. He manages to push aside the wave of disappointment he feels as John suddenly backpedals and denies flirting with him by declaring emphatically that he is  _ not  _ gay. He doesn’t focus on that feeling too long because just then he notices that a cab recently pulls up and suddenly takes off. They quickly leave the restaurant and a mad dash across roof tops and down deserted alleyways ensues as they chase down a possible murder suspect. John has never felt so alive.

 

The murder suspect turned out to be nothing but a simple tourist, it’s a bit of a bust, but the evening was not lost. After collapsing in the corridor at Baker Street, in breathless giggles, Angelo arrives right on time to deliver John’s cane to him. Watching the light return to John’s face was a breathtaking, exciting moment. As matching, warm smiles spread across both men’s faces, the moment is quickly lost when a sobbing Mrs. Hudson demands to know what Sherlock has done.

Gerald and his team are ruining their new, collective home, and he didn’t want John to find out about the synthetic emotion this way. That look of utter sadness and disbelief flashes across the blond man’s face and the Consulting Detective can’t explain why John’s opinion of him matters so much, but it does and he pushes away the hurt he already feels at the possibility of the army doctor’s disapproval.

 

Because of that, he lashes out in frustration and anger and somehow manages to belittle everyone in the room in the process. He just needs to  **think** ! If everyone would shut up for five minutes, he could solve the damn cas-. Wait… Mrs. Hudson. The cab... His phone pings.  **‘COME WITH ME.’** Time seems to stand still as he just catches a glimpse at the cabbie before he begins to descend the stairs.

 

John seems to notice the faraway look in the detective’s eye because he softly inquires, concern evident in his voice, “Sherlock, you okay?” The ebony haired man seems to be lost in thought for only a moment before finally responding “What? Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.”

 

“So, how can the phone be here?” John asks stumped.

 

Without ever taking his eyes of the cabbie he remembers making a vague, ‘Dunno.’ He remembers replying once more to John before he begins to take off after the cab driver.

If Sherlock had been looking, he would have noticed John’s deep frown across his face as he asks, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” he answers before racing down the stairs after the murderer.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it,” John proclaims, trying desperately to look innocent but failing, “Dreadful.” Sherlock only softly smiles, “Good shot.”

 

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window,” the ex-soldier states, trying to feign innocence. 

 

The detective’s smile grows, “Well, you’d know.” John gazes up at him and tries desperately to keep his expression neutral in order to hide from the most observant man, but fails spectacularly. “Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers,” Sherlock continues, “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

 

The blond haired man clears his throat nervously, refusing to look at Sherlock. Picking up on John’s anxiety, Sherlock gently queries, “Are you alright?” John’s reply is instantaneous and a bit confused, “Yes, of course I’m alright.”

 

“Well you  _ have _ just killed a man,” Sherlock volleys back just as quickly.

“Yes, I—,” John stops for a moment and smiles after he realizes what exactly he gave away, “That’s true, isn’t it? But he wasn’t a very nice man.” Sherlock quickly nods his head and agrees. A small smile spreads across the ex-soldier’s face, “And frankly a bloody  _ awful _ cabbie.”

A deep, rich chuckle ripples past cupid bowed lips as he leads John away from the crime scene and replies with mirth clearly apparent in his voice, “That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have  _ seen _ the route he took us to get here!” Giggles suddenly erupt out of John, making Sherlock smile brightly at him. “Stop. Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it,” John tries to say reproachfully, but can’t due to the laughter just behind his words.

 

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

 

“Shh! Keep your voice down!”

 

They walk past Donovan, still giggling, and she raises her eyebrow disdainfully. John sobers slightly and mumbles out a lame excuse for their actions and Sherlock half-heartedly apologizes. She walks away and rolls her eyes.   
  


Out of the corner of his eye, John sees  _ the enemy  _ standing just on the edge of the crime scene. From there, of course, John meets the, equally mysterious, eldest Holmes brother properly. After a bit of petty bickering between the two, the youngest Holmes and the loyal, ex-army doctor leave the area with broad smiles and shared looks of euphoria.

 

Faintly, the auburn haired man can hear the anguished cries of a nineteen-year-old, mourning the loss of everything he holds dear. Because of that, as  Mycroft Holmes stares at the departing duo, he cryptically states, “ Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother—or make him worse than ever.” He pauses momentarily and then straightens slightly, focusing his thoughts, “Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active.” ‘Anthea’ finally looks up from her smartphone, “Sorry, sir. Whose status?”

 

Never taking his eyes off the pair, the British Government eventually states, “Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to QueenLadyAnne, CCwritessometimes, and Hateya W. These lovely betas all work with me to make this story into something I believe is special. Also, special thank you Ariane DeVere (I'm just going to make a tag for this wonderful person, because I use their blog so often). 
> 
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/
> 
> Today fucked me up. I didn't want to watch the episode and I didn't watch the episode. I will NOT watch the episode. However, I am reading all the fluffiest fanfiction, I am listening to all the happy music, and I am posting a happy-ish chapter for you. They meet and I PROMISE you, they love each other. I am still part of the TJLC community, and I will forever be so. We are important, we are valid, how we feel is important, and we are a family. We are a community of people who believe in love and acceptance and I am forever grateful to meet you all. Thank you for seven years of love. 
> 
> Also....If you know me, you know that I like angst, and you're going to get a lot of it. Here's a hint for next chapter, Fall...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Hopefully we'll have the next one out for you saturday! My beta and I have different timezones, so it get's a little complicated. :p Anyway! Happy reading!


	5. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I O U a Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of drug use and canon death  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful and helpful beta, and the ever so lovely Ariane DeVere (Linke here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for creating such a wonderful transcript to go by. I appreciate both of these lovely human beings.

Sherlock is a bloody madman. There is no other word for it, John is sure. Just a bloody madman. Yes, the man is a genius. There is no denying that, but is it really necessary to have decapitated heads (and other appendages) in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, pig intestines in the bath, or to come home to gunshots ringing out followed by a bellowed, “BORED!”? Really, it’s no surprise that John’s blog quickly morphed into a written documentation containing all of Sherlock’s odd behavior on cases and at their home.

 

And he would have to get away at times. He would need to go out for air, to clear his head, to let the rage settle and leave his veins. He tried to distance himself from Sherlock for a while. That’s why he joined the surgery. His life was such chaos living with the insane genius he needed just a few hours of normalcy. Plus, the bills weren’t going to pay themselves. Maybe that’s why he started dating Sarah. He knows he is just deluding himself. Sarah is the complete opposite from the curly haired Consulting Detective. Where Sherlock is loud, spontaneous, and exuberant, Sarah is quiet and demure. They were as different as night and day. Sarah was safe and normal. She also didn’t make him feel alive. She knew that in some way, though. That’s probably why there wasn’t a second date. That or, you know, being kidnapped and almost murdered.

 

Sarah was just the beginning to a futile go at relationships with all those women.  He would promise himself that this time, things would go differently, but each and every time Sherlock would call his name and he would wind up ditching dates to go spend time with the ebony haired man. John tried to date, and it didn’t really get him anywhere. He, oddly enough, didn’t really miss dating. He had adventure and excitement. His world is so colorful and bright because of this madman. It’s no wonder, really, that John Watson fell in love with Sherlock Holmes, and it scared the hell out of him.

 

Because of that, John adamantly blames his fear for the way he reacted when faced with Sebastian Wilkes. He denied being Sherlock’s friend to protect his heart. John felt that if he admitted to being Sherlock’s friend, the rest of his feelings would come tumbling out. However, now John knows what a terrible mistake that was. Watching Sherlock’s face fall at his denial broke the blogger’s heart. Seeing Seb’s smile in return made John’s blood boil, though. God, that man is an utter dickhead. Being near him made him want to punch that sarcastic, ugly face repeatedly. Not to mention how Sherlock reacted to the terrible banker. Sebastian talked down to Sherlock constantly and the brilliant detective took it without a fight. Knowing that everyone hated Sherlock made John’s heart hurt for the young boy that had no friends. No wonder he turned to synthetic emotions to take the pain away. If he and Sherlock didn’t need the money, he would have gladly told Sebastian where he could shove his cheque.

 

The Consulting Detective solved the idiotic man’s security breach quite easily, but then arose more problems. Sebastian’s case brought them in close contact with Soo Lin’s death and terrifying members of the Black Lotus gang. There’s that name again. James Moriarty. No one’s safe. Some ferocious and terrifying force was after Sherlock.

 

It was their next case that they were to meet the formidable foe. Sherlock is swept away by Moriarty’s puzzles and he begins slowly losing his humanity. Jealousy is such an ugly beast. Having just recently discovering his own feelings, John feels wounded and hurt that Sherlock could be swayed so easily to play with people’s lives as if they don’t matter. When the older woman dies, the tension that has been building from the start of the case erupts from both men. They both manage to hurt each other after that. Hurtful words and comments flow from two sets of lips and frustration swells and rises with each passing piece of the puzzle is completed. He has to get away. Go somewhere else. Talk to someone else.

 

“I won’t be in for tea. I’m going to Sarah’s.” John pauses, ever the worrier, “There’s still some of that risotto still left in the fridge.” He only receives a noncommittal hum from Sherlock as a response. As he pulls on his jacket, ready to leave, John begins to mumble about the groceries that they will need shortly. Sherlock surprises him by stating that he will get some himself. John can only nod in shock at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness as he leaves. The last thing John can vividly remember is the slamming of several car doors just to the left and behind him before everything goes pitch black.

 

The next events erupt in dizzying clashes of confusion. The dynamic duo finally meets the enigmatic villain in an array of bomb vests, snipers, and an explosion at the end. Moriarty vanishes as quickly as he arrives. Somehow they both know that this is not the end. Moriarty is a spider, weaving his web so that he may devour his prey. John has a sinking suspicion that they will not get away unscathed.

It is only a few months later that they meet The Woman. Just when John finally believes the two men will finally get somewhere, Irene Adler saunters into their lives and turns their worlds upside down. Just as quickly as she arrives, did she suddenly vanish once again. Somehow, in John’s opinion at least, Irene seems to have seduced the closed off Sherlock Holmes. He saves her life because the world deserves to have such a mysterious, puzzling woman. He respects her. In all reality, Sherlock was only playing the game. She was a wonderful opponent, a worthy adversary, but nothing more.

But now Sherlock knows. Sherlock knows that this thing with John is something special. This is something worthwhile and wonderful and exciting. He knows that John feels the same way, but…he also knows that they can’t be together. The next case proves that much to be true. He is terrified. He is so damn afraid. He is afraid of Moriarty. There will be a final problem, and Sherlock knows that he must leave John behind.

 

He’s going to get away with it. They won’t find James Moriarty guilty. He knows that. He knows that and he is prepared for it, so why does the breath he has just recently taken into his lungs rushing out in quick exhales? The spider will ruin his name. He will make him look like a serial killer or a murder or some fiend. Everyone will turn their backs on him. Even…John. Everyone will begin to believe the lies and deceit.  _ ‘I.O.U., Sherlock. I owe you a fall.’ _ Echoes loudly in his cranial cavity. The final problem. He will die and he will leave everything he loves dearly behind. The Reichenbach Hero will fall, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put him back together again.

Mycroft Holmes is a man of many things. He is a man of science, reason, and politics. He understands complex problems, and he can easily give simple solutions to those problems. The British Government is a man of many talents and skills. Mycroft Holmes is not a man of fear. He does not fear losing his job one day because he is assured that he is too good at it. He did not fear for his life when an assassin was waiting for him in his home waiting to strike. He handled that instance as he would another other. He calmly withdrew a gun from its hiding spot and went hunting. The day that his little brother arrived at the Diogenes Club crying and begging him—the man Sherlock had never truly forgiven all those years ago—for his help, shocked him to his core. For the first time in his life, the auburn-haired man experiences true fear.

 

They had to prepare. There are things to be done. Sherlock needed fast acting synthetic apathy that would act quickly and leave after just one hour. Everything had to be timed perfectly and flawlessly. Nothing could go wrong for this final showdown.

 

They devised synthetic patches engineered and transformed from regular smoking patches that would do in a bind. He had Sherlock go down to the morgue and enlist the help of Molly Hooper in case matters eventually escalated to that magnitude. Everything was prepared in advance. Now the only thing left to do was to get John to leave him.

 

It was almost too easy. If Sherlock had the capacity to feel any emotion, the ebony haired genius would have been brought to his knees by the physical ache from John’s hate filled, “You machine,” as he leaves Sherlock alone for the last time.

As he climbs the stairs to Saint Bart’s rooftop, he can slowly fill emotion file back into his system. Unimaginable anguish and despair fill his lungs drowning out everything else, stopping his breathing; nearly bringing him to his knees. ‘ _ Focus _ ,’ He tells himself furiously, ‘ _ Keep it together. It’s almost over.’ _

‘ **LAZARUS IS A GO.’**

If it had not been for the all-encompassing rage that quickly followed, Sherlock would have turned back by now, but as he takes the final 12 stairs, he can feel his veins burning with barely contained fury. He pushes open the heavy metal door leading out to the roof and nearly snarls when he hears the chorus of “Stayin’ Alive” begin to play.  ‘ _ How dare he. How dare he take everything away from me? How dare he take the one thing I can’t bear to lose. _ ’ He takes a calming breath and stands straighter. It’s time to play the game, and he has a damn good reason to win.

It’s time. He’s been given an ultimatum: jump, or watch everyone he loves get murdered. Sorrow, once again, consumes him as he thinks of what his future will hold. He makes his decision. He steps up onto the ledge and looks down.

_ ‘Oh, god, what have I done. _ ’ John, having arrived back at Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson alive and well, realizes what a fool he has been. This has all been an elaborate trap to draw him away from the detective, and it succeeded. Anxiety churns in his stomach as he silently begs to cab to arrive faster. When the cab finally pulls to a stop across from the hospital, John throws the money at the cabbie and begins to make quick strides across the street until his phone begins to ring, halting him in place.

“Hello?”

 

“John.”

John exhales shakily in relief at hearing the other man’s voice and then asks, “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

The man on the roof can feel his heart drop to his stomach as fresh tears spring to his eyes. ‘ _ John _ .’ He swallows thickly around the knot in his throat before dismissing John’s question and demanding, “Turn around and walk back the way you came now.” Alarm bells are definitely going off in John’s head as he can hear the audible distress in every syllable Sherlock speaks. He regains his forward motion, all but trying to run to the front doors, “No, I’m coming in.” Sherlock’s frantic, “Just do as I ask.  **Please** ,” causes John significant pause, and he eventually walks back to the pavement from which he came.

When Sherlock eventually tells him to stop, he begins to frantically search for the concerning detective to no avail. A whispered, “Sherlock?” is breathed into the phone before John is directed to look up. His entire body goes cold with horror as he sees his best friend standing on the ledge of St. Bart’s roof. A barely contained sob escapes past clenched lips as the once proud detective desperately tries to state, “I—I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?!”

“An apology. It’s true. It’s all true.”

John stares up at him in disbelief, “W-what?” Sherlock’s shoulders slump in defeat as he looks down at Moriarty’s frozen, smiling face, “Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty,” his voice breaks, “I’m a fake.” The tears Sherlock tried so desperately to keep at bay fall as his voice conveys his heartbreak, “The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly…in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

The loyal army doctor becomes infuriated by Sherlock’s outrageous claims and rebuffs him by saying, “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew about my sister, right?” Sherlock whispers, “No one could be that clever,” John looks up at his best friend with decisive conviction as he reverently states, “You could.”

A self-deprecating laugh escapes as Sherlock sorrowfully gazes down at his friend, “I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick, John. Just a magic trick.”  John, becomes further angered by his friend’s blatant lies about himself. He shakes his head repeatedly as he walks resolutely toward the entrance once more, “No. All right, stop it now.”

Sherlock raises his hand to stop John as he urgently demands, “No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move,” causes him to back up, halt, and raise his own hand to pacify the distraught detective, “All right.”

Suddenly, the Consulting Detective’s voice becomes increasingly distraught as he begs John to keep watching. He is leaving his suicide note. By now, both men are openly crying as John begs Sherlock to stay. A sobbed, “Goodbye, John,” are the last words John hears before Sherlock drops his phone and falls forward.

“ **SHERLOCK** !”

A sickening crunch echoes across the street as John stares in utter horror at his best friend’s broken body. All sound whites out for John as he stumbles forward. He manages to somehow reach the middle of the road before being plowed over by a fast peddling cyclist. When he finally manages to return to his feet, a crowd has emerged around the dead detective. A broken, whispered, “Sh-sherlock,” is uttered when he finally reaches the circle of people.

“Please, he’s my friend. Please. I-I’m a doctor. Let me through, please,” John begs beseechingly. He manages to take hold of Sherlock’s wrist to check frantically for a pulse, but doesn’t find one. People in the crowd begin to tear him away and he frantically begs to remain by his friend’s side. His knees give away and he crumbles to the ground, barely being supported by other onlookers as members of the voyeuristic crowd gently turn Sherlock onto his back. Glazed, dead, verdigris eyes gaze blankly up at the sky.

He groans in agony, begging God that this isn’t true. Begging any deity that will listen to bring Sherlock back; to bring Sherlock back to him. However, as paramedics load the detective’s lifeless body onto a stretcher and into an ambulance, John finally realizes that he is gone.

As he stares at the black, glistening marble, he gently touches the smooth stone and begs for one last miracle. Just one. “Don’t be dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know...I'm awful. If you're interested, though, I am currently writing a short little happy fic that I will post directly after my beta and I look over chapter 6. You'll have to wait a bit for chapter 6, though... It's REALLY long and I had to break it up into two parts (while I'm thinking on it, posting is going to be tricky from now on because I am back in University and updating between my many classes will be difficult. ANYWAY, back to before, if you're interested, I'm going to be writing a short (maybe just over 1,000 words) story to counteract all the sadness you're about to receive. I've told you before...It gets REALLY bad before it gets better. However, I promise you, that it WILL get better. I'm never going to lead you on about it. It will be official here. They love each other and they will always love each other (if you can't tell, I'm a little bitter. My apologies). Anyway, my lovelies, I will see you next chapter :). I love you all very much and I hope you have a very wonderful day/night, whereever you are. Happy reading!


	6. Anguish (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns, but things aren't going so great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings for this chapters** : Mentions of drug use and brief mention of violence (just to be safe)  
>  **Disclaimer** : I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
>  **Special Thanks** : QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful and helpful beta, and the ever so lovely Ariane DeVere (Linke here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for creating such a wonderful transcript to go by. I appreciate both of these lovely human beings.

Maybe she will take his mind off of things. Maybe she will take the pain away for just a little while. Maybe…she will make him stop thinking of  **him** . He doesn’t think she could ever make him truly happy. Not the way he did, but maybe he can eventually find neutrality or a semblance of peace. He just needs to stop thinking. He turned to alcohol to drown his sorrow, but in his feverish, drunken state, Sherlock’s ghost would haunt Baker Street’s halls, and at night, after dreams of Sherlock plummeting to earth, John would pace the floor, mutter and cry out in anger and anguish at the loss of the man he so desperately loved.

At night, Mrs. Hudson could hear agonized screaming from the room above her own—Sherlock’s room (John had taken to staying there now)— before silenlence. The disturbed landlady feared silence the most because it harbored despair and dark thoughts. It began just days after his death. Nagging little voices at the back of his mind whispering tantalizing and tempting notions that became almost unbearable to refuse.

On those nights, John would limp over to his desk, pull out his gun, methodically clean it, and then he would place the barrel in his mouth, finger hovering over the trigger, and he would begin to pray. He prayed for courage. He prayed that he would have the courage to end his life because he was so miserable anyway. At least dying permitted peaceful slumber.

At least Mary distracts him enough to keep the darkness at bay for a few hours. Maybe that’s why he decided to ask her to marry him. He loved that she stayed by his side though all the dark days. He loved her bright smile and charismatic spirit. He loved that she had an impish sense of humor, but did he love her? Yes, it’s true, he does love her in some way, but she is not Sherlock and she never will be. Maybe she could give him a life back. Being needed and wanted and appreciated might make him feel human again.

It’s on that day, two years after Sherlock’s death, when John finally decides to pop the question. He needs to rebuild his life. Living in a constant state of despair is only hurting him. For the first time in two years, he feels excited and, dare he say it, happy. Things are finally starting to look up.

 

* * *

 

Two years.

 

Two, long, miserable years filled with heartache, longing, pain, and suffering, but all of that finally ends today. He is going home to John Watson. As Mycroft’s men treat the deep lacerations on his back and cut away at his shaggy hair, Sherlock begins to think about what he will say to his John. He knows that he wants to finally tell John how he feels. He is tired of waiting. He wants to finally be able to be with John. With a decisive course of action in mind, Sherlock demands his great Belstaff coat from Mycroft’s henchmen. He carefully fixes the collar, careful not to pull any of the fresh stitches out, his brother steps beside him and gently takes his arm, “Sherlock.”

 

The youngest Holmes manages to ignore the elder for a few moments before a quiet, “He isn’t there anymore, you know. It’s been two years, brother mine. He’s got on with his life.” A sardonic, “What life? I’ve been away,” is bitten out to mask the sudden wave of anxiety Sherlock now feels. After a moment a much softer, “Where’s he going to be tonight,” escapes past cupid bowed lips.

Begrudgingly, Mycroft complies with the information, “He has dinner reservations at the Marylebone Road.” A broad smile spreads across angular features at the prospect of seeing his beloved companion once more. He excitedly states, “I think maybe I’ll just stop by.” The curly haired sleuth makes his way for the door, but every motion halts when Mycroft states, “You know, it just might be possible that you won’t be welcome.” Sherlock hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe— “No. It isn’t. Text me if his location changes,” he states and then he is gone, leaving a worried Mycroft behind.

To say that the evening could have gone better, was a huge understatement. He hadn’t expected John to be so angry. He hadn’t expected to feel so heartbroken. John really had moved on. Sherlock could read the deductions as plain as day, ‘He’s going to ask her to marry him.’ What can he say, really? She managed to rise above every other person John has dated. He chose her. He loves her, apparently. He’s…moved on. It’s all over, isn’t it? Maybe he never really had a chance. He is too late. Two years too late.

Why does it hurt so badly? It was supposed to be the two of them against the rest of the world. Why does it torment him so incessantly? John Watson was his entire world during those two years and he still is, but it’s obviously not reciprocated. John has trust issues, yes. He doesn’t like being lied to, and Sherlock committed the ultimate deceit by faking his suicide. Maybe this is the breaking point. This crime is too severe for forgiveness. It’s no wonder John moved on. He doesn’t need Sherlock anymore. He has Mary now. Why would he need a mentally and physically scarred, broken man? He’s useless.

As he lays in Mycroft’s office, once again, getting the deep lacerations on his back sewn shut—after John’s rigorous beatings—he lets the reality of the situation settle in. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. All hearts are broken and caring is not an advantage. He lost. What a fool he’s been.

Mycroft is kind enough not to say anything.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson knows that something is so terribly wrong with the once proud detective. Yes, there are physical injuries. Around Sherlock’s nose and eyes lies deep, dark bruising and the ridiculous man seems to be favoring his back, but it is his heart Mrs. Hudson is concerned for. Sherlock’s heart and spirit seems to be broken. It doesn’t take a genius of Sherlock’s caliber to deduce that it is because of John. Being the motherly woman that she is, she can’t let matters lie. For the sixteenth time this week (yes, Sherlock’s counted) she inquires, “Sherlock, dear, why don’t you just call him?”

The once silent, despondent detective suddenly shoots up in frustrations, pulls at his dark curls and shouts, “Don’t you think I’ve tried? He won’t listen to me. I have asked for forgiveness. I apologized repeatedly. He just tells me to fuck off. What can I do? I just want him—.” Having realized what he was saying, he snaps his mouth shut knowing he’s already giving too much away. He doesn’t need Mrs. Hudson’s pity, too. When he looks, however, it is not pity he sees. He sees worry, yes, but it’s more than that. Just behind her understanding smile lies genuine heartache.

It was in that moment Sherlock realizes that she knows. He has been so obvious, and he knows she can read exactly how he feels just by his facial expressions. His face slowly morphs into an angry scowl as he tries to deflect and hide his embarrassment and shame, but Mrs. Hudson cuts that train of thought off with a kind, “No, dear. Don’t be like that. Yes, love, I know, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

As she goes to leave, the smarter-than-she-looks landlady gently pats his hand to show her affection toward the petulant genius. In a moment of uncharacteristic, visible vulnerability, Sherlock softly catches her wrist, refuses to meet her eyes, and asks, “What can I do?” The elderly woman tenderly soothes back disheveled curls and states, “Well, dear, you have to give him time.”

* * *

“Why don’t you just go and talk to him? You’ve been biting at the bit to go see him. He’s alive. Go see him.”

 

In the bathroom John scoffs, “It’s ancient history, Mary.” She laughs airily at his blatant denial, “Obviously not. You have questions. You missed him. Is it because he—. What are you doing?” Without missing a beat John quickly responds, “I’m having a wash.” Mary grins, “You’re shaving it off.”

“Well, you hate it."

“Sherlock hates it.”

“Everyone hates it, apparently,” John grumbles

A silence falls across the room momentarily until giggles burst past Mary’s lips, “So, are you going to see him?” John sighs in frustration, “No, I’m going to work.” Mary continues to giggle, “After work, are you going to see him?” John sighs in exasperation, but does not respond. Eventually, he finishes shaving and as he leaves the house, he gently kisses Mary and leaves.

It’s true. Yes, he does want to see Sherlock desperately, but he is so damned angry. How Sherlock can expect John to just forgive the other man is beyond him, but he has so desperately missed his best friend. However, if John gives in now, he’s going to feel like Sherlock is only winning. Just because Sherlock didn’t suffer those two years, doesn’t mean he has to rub it in John’s face. The other man is so infuriating! Yet John knows that he will crack eventually. He can’t live his life without Sherlock Holmes.

 

When he finally arrives at the clinic, the doctor tries earnestly to focus wholeheartedly on his patients and, for the most part, he succeeds. However, his mind keeps circling back to his infuriating friend. Oh, but of course, Sherlock somehow knew. That much is obvious when Mr. “Szikora” arrives. John’s absolutely had it. Not only has Sherlock arrived back into his life when he is meant to move on and get married to someone else, the infuriating man just had to show up at work to torment him some more. John is positive that if the other man weren’t so deep in character, deep baritone chuckles would fill the room due to John’s plight. In moments, John is standing and yanking on the other man’s hat and glasses in his annoyance.

Oh…Well… This is awkward. In a case of mistaken identity, John has assaulted a sixty-year-old man.  _ Wonderful _ .

Maybe this is some sort of a sign. Maybe he should just go and see the other man. As he dons his coat and gathers his paperwork he makes the decision to see the great Consulting Detective. He steps outside and turns down an alleyway. Unfortunately, his new lifestyle with Mary does not include wild chases or murderous cabbies, and thus, domesticity has made him slow. Because of this, he doesn’t see the other men following close behind. He doesn’t notice them until suddenly, a cloth is pressed against his mouth. John instantly begins to struggle, but to no avail. His vision begins to darken. Absentmindedly he thinks, ‘ _ Chloroform _ ,’ before everything fades to black.

* * *

 

_'_ _ Well, that was entirely unpleasant and uneventful, _ ’ Sherlock thinks as he finally returns to Baker street after an uneventful case with Molly. Sherlock would never admit to it because he knows it’s petty, but he wanted to get his own back, in a way. John so easily found a replacement. John moved on. Somewhere, deep inside himself, the Consulting Detective wanted to show John that he could do it too. He wanted to prove that he can make it on his own, that he could be happy without the blogger, too. Obviously, even trying to replace John is entirely impossible. John is vital and important. He is lost without his blogger.

He silently berates himself, scowl angrily etched across his face. He is being foolish. He knows that. Sentiment is a contender for the losing side. He repeats the mantra several times until a persistent knocking draws his attention away from his dark thoughts.

_ ‘Mary? What is she doing here? She holds everything of importance. What could Mary possibly need at Baker Street?’ _ He shakes his head imperceptibly and waits to hear what she has to say. In Mary’s flustered murmurings, the words, “I think someone’s got John,” reverberates around the brilliant man’s skull, triggering bright, flashing, red lights to go off behind his eyes. ‘He was supposed to be safe! Not John. Please, not John Watson.’ In his rising panic, he manages to utter out a concerned, “Mary? What’s wrong?”

She briefly looks up from her phone to show the detective the mobile device, “Someone sent me this. At first, I thought it was just some Bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip code.” Sherlock looks at her closely, briefly, before turning swiftly back to the texts. Instantly, he makes deductions and conclusions, “First word, then every third.”

**‘SAVE JOHN WATSON.’**

He pauses for a moment as Mary pulls up the next message. Words begin to fade until ‘ **SAINT JAMES THE LESS’** remains from the final message. Realizing where John is, he urgently demands, “ **NOW** !” Then they are off. Sherlock steps into the middle of oncoming traffic and steals a motorcycle from a reluctant bystander.

As they speed down streets and zoom down darkened alleyways, messages from an unknown sender alert them that their time to find John is limited.  Minutes feel like milliseconds as the as the ever-descending timer continues to tick down. Sherlock tries desperately to urge the bike on faster.

When they finally arrive, a massive bonfire is raging to life as flames began to devour individual tree branches. Sherlock throws his helmet off and makes a mad dash to the burning bonfire knowing instinctively where the blogger is hidden. “ **JOHN** !” Sherlock yells desperately when he finally manages to reach the blazing scene. The Consulting Detective frantically thrusts his hands inside the inferno to pull away flaming branches without a second thought. He can feel his skin searing away, but he barely registers the pain in his desperation to find the other man. Finally, Sherlock’s hands brushes across wool and without delay, he securely grabs the other man’s arm and pulls him out of the fiery depths.

For one solitary moment, everything and everyone else seems to fade away for the frightened detective as John blearily looks up at him. Relief overtakes the usually composed man as he softly says, “Hello, John.”

Not long after, an ambulance arrives. Paramedics quickly usher the former blogger into the back of the vehicle to make sure everything is alright. As soon as the detective hears that the other man only sustained minor injuries, he flees back to Baker Street to escape the possibility of the infamous Watson Wrath. Their last meeting…was unpleasant to say the least. It’s best to try avoid that if possible. Besides, John doesn’t want to see the ebony haired man anyway. John said so himself on several different occasions.

He enters the desolate, darkened, empty flat and pauses just inside the doorway. Slowly, the consulting Detective walks over to John’s old chair, folds his long frame into the confines of the limited seating, clutches John’s Union Jack pillow to his chest, and buries his face against his knees. Not for the first time since returning to London, Sherlock wishes he had never returned at all.

* * *

Really. He’s  _ fine _ . He just wants everyone to stop fussing. He’s been through worse and right now, their concern is annoying. Yes, the experience was terrifying, but Sherlock saved hi—. Wait... Where is the other man? John begins searching the crowd for ebony curls and sharp cheekbones without avail. ‘ _ Did he seriously leave?’ _ John’s annoyance spreads across his face in varying degrees of increasing hostility as he realizes the other man left at the first opportunity he could. What an inconvenience he must be for the other man. His face hardens into something of a scowl as anger slowly burns through his veins once more. Mary must have seen his expression because she steps forward with a soft smile on her face, “You just missed him. He left about five minutes ago.”

Okay, so maybe Sherlock  _ did  _ stick around long enough to ensure John’s safety, but that doesn’t mean he stayed for John or that he even cares. He was probably just interviewing people on the scene of the crime, trying to solve the puzzle and win the game. John knows that the detective wouldn’t make the mistake of troubling himself with caring. The other man has said so often enough.

John could feel his determination to stay angry fading. The blogger heard the other man’s voice. For one brief, shining moment, he saw the heart behind the cold exterior. The man behind the mechanical façade, but that doesn’t explain why he left. John supposes that this is the final straw, of sorts. Now he  **has to** visit the other man. If nothing else, he needs answers. The blogger is drawn out of his musings by Mary’s impish giggle. When he turns his attention on her she asks once more, “So, are you going to go see him?” John huffs out in mock irritation, but as they travel home in a cab, hand in hand, the former blogger silently plans to visit the mad man tomorrow.

As the next day dawns, John gets ready for work and goes through his daily routine and regime. He finally grabs his briefcase and kisses Mary goodbye. She gives him a knowing smile and ushers him out the door. As he takes the tube to work, his mind begins to wonder to what he is going to say when they finally sit down to have a civilized conversation. He goes through his workday in a similar manner. Every available opportunity, his mind begins forming likely conversations and different scenarios that he wants to play out. Finally, after his usual eight-hour shift, Doctor Song arrives to relieve him of his duty for the day.   

Without giving himself a moment to even second guess his decision, he finds himself face to face with the signature black door. He pulls out a little golden key and makes his way slowly up the seventeen steps to find the door open. He can hear soft voices conversing with each other, but the consulting detective’s deep baritone is not present in the conversation.

_ ‘Ah. Right. Clients, _ ’ John thinks to himself. He makes his way cautiously inside and notices an elderly couple sitting comfortably on thei— **no** , Sherlock’s couch. The other man must have heard John’s footsteps on the landing because he instantly turns wide, surprised eyes on John.

Instantly, Sherlock tries to shuffle the two out the door, even going as far to try and forcefully close the door on the woman’s foot. John stares at the other man in mild amusement and states, when the couple finally departs, “Really, Sherlock, if you were busy with clients, I could have stopped by later.”

The ebony haired man hesitates for a moment before replying, “Er…no…no, they didn’t have a case for me. It’s just…my parents.” The doctor stares disbelievingly, “Your-your parents?” Sherlock nods, “In town for a few days.”

The disbelief does not falter, “ **Your** parents?”

Sherlock strides over to the window and watches them leave as he, once again, affirms what John is saying. The former blogger stares at the other man for a moment and eventually softly chuckles out, “That’s not what I expected.” This statement finally causes the taller man to turn piercing verdigris eyes on the other room’s occupant as John continues, “I mean, they’re just so… _ ordinary _ .”

Sherlock smiles but tuts mock disparity, “The cross I must bear.” The causes both men to genuinely smile and laugh for the first time in two years.   _ ‘This is nice _ ,’ John thinks _ , ‘everything is almost normal, _ ’ but another thought slowly creeps in and it turns his blood to fire in an instant. His face darkens as he mincingly inquires, “Did they know, too?”

The detective feigned innocence, refusing to meet John’s eyes, as the blogger continues to bite out each word, “Did they know that you spent the last two years playing hide and seek?” Sherlock, again, refuses to meet John’s gaze and pretends to clean off imaginary specks of dust off his laptop keyboard as he replies as nonchalantly as possible, “Maybe.”

John no longer tries to hide his bitterness, “Ah! So that’s why they weren’t at the funeral.” The doctor ignores the other man’s hasty apologies as he begins walking quickly to the front door to walk off the anger that is threatening to consume him. As he reaches for the door knob, a quiet, heartfelt, “Sorry,” reaches his ears. John pauses. He breathes out slowly and remembers that this is what he wanted. He wanted this communication between them. He turns to meet the other man’s eyes and for a moment they gaze at each other in silence.

“See you’ve shaved it off, then.” Sherlock gestures and says awkwardly as he tries to break the ominous silence. It works as John nods and replies, “Yeah. Wasn’t working for me.” The ebony haired man genuinely smiles as he takes in his friend’s familiar face sans mournsta—mustache and states, “I’m glad. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

John walks slowly across the room again and is no in front of his old chair. “That’s not a sentence you hear every day,” John says as he sits down. He grunts as some of the gashes on his face pull with his movements. The concern is palpable as Sherlock softly asks, “How are you feeling?”

The blogger nonchalantly replies, “Not bad. Bit…smoked.”

“Right.”

Suddenly the atmosphere becomes heavy as John somberly inquires, “Last night—who did that? Why did they target me? Is someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with the terrorist thing you told me about?” Genuinely, Sherlock admits as he walks to his wall of mounting information, “I don’t know. I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous.” After a moment, he continues, “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange.”

John’s confusion is evident as he questions, “Give his life?”

The detective nods and begins pointing to separate pictures on his ever-expanding wall of evidence commenting on each one before finally turning to the last remaining photograph of Lord Moran, Minister of Overseas Development. Sherlock explains that he is the biggest rat that has done something incredibly suspicious. As he is showing John the video of Moran’s disappearing act, an epiphany strikes. He triumphantly proclaims, “Yes, yes, yes, yes,  **YES** ! I’ve been an idiot—a blind idiot! Mycroft’s intelligence—it’s not nebulous at all. It’s specific—incredibly specific. It’s not an underground network, John. It’s the  _ Underground _ network!”

“Right… What?”

Sherlock leans over John’s shoulder to replay the video once more as he explains, “Sometimes deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face.” An excited smile spreads across the detective continues, “Look—seven carriages leave Westminster but only six carriages arrive at St. James’s Park. Moran didn’t disappear—the entire Tube compartment did! The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage!”

The Consulting Detective begins to pace, “It vanishes between St. James’s Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You’re kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks par—.” Sherlock stops. Suddenly, all the pieces fall into place and he’s got it.  _ Remember Remember _ . There’s going to be a bomb and they don’t have much time left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is sad, I know. It seems like things aren't going to turn out well. I know it feels likes some stories just won't end the way you want them to, but, I promise you, that things will be alright. Even now, I'm so distraught over season 4, episode 3 did not end with Johnlock, but I am so proud and happy to be a part of such a wonderfully incredible community that sticks toghether and creates our own endings. You'll get this happy ending. I always want to reassure you of that, and because I am gay myself that means that I plan to continue to strive for more LGBT content, even if I have to create that content myself. Sorry. I've been thinking A LOT lately about a lot of things and it spilled over here. I'll get on to the notes. ^_^;
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to say this now. I AM NOT A FAN OF MARY. IF YOU ARE A FAN OF MARY, THIS FANFICTION WILL MOST LIKELY NOT BE FOR YOU. I want to get that out of the way now, because I, unlike John in the show, could not forgive her for shooting Sherlock. He is my child and I love him so very much. Also, this is part one of two. I'll post the second chapter tomorrow. I'm really tired tonight. As always, happy reading! I hope you have a good week!


	7. Anguish (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's gunna ask Sherlock the big question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of drug use and brief mention of violence (just to be safe)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful and helpful beta, and the ever so lovely Ariane DeVere (Linke here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for creating such a wonderful transcript to go by. I appreciate both of these lovely human beings.

Somehow, that’s how they find themselves here, in the London Underground trying desperately to defuse a bomb which only has 2:30 to go. Sherlock has no idea what to do. He’s never defused a bomb before. He begins frantically searching his Mind Palace for any relevant information that could lead to saving their lives. He comes up empty handed. The Consulting Detective turns sad, defeated eyes on his dear friend and softly says, “I’m so sorry. I-I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how.” Sherlock’s eyes begin to fill with tears as he continues, “Forgive me? Please, John, forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you.”

John does not want to believe him. It _must_ be a trick. It _has_ to be. **Please**. _‘Dear_ ** _god_** _,_ _let me live.’_ However, when Sherlock’s expression does not change from broken defeat into one of triumph, John knows. This isn’t a game. The older man takes a calming breath through his nose, lowers his head, and then raises to his full height, clearly in soldier mode as he delivers words he has rehearsed a thousand times before, “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.” Here he pauses, trying to regain what little composure he has before continuing once more in a choked off whisper, “You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Of course, I forgive you.” John lowers his head and braces himself for certain death as Sherlock’s sobs seem to only grow louder and louder.

Suddenly, John hears a snort of laughter as Sherlock howls his amusement at John’s apparent despair, twin tear tracks stream down the Consulting Detective’s cheeks in his mirth. John steps forward and it is only then that he notices that the clock has stopped counting down and is, in fact, stuck between 1:28 and 1:29. Sherlock continues to cackle in shamefully present glee as John rants and raves about the detective’s awful prank.

Sherlock begins to explain how exactly he knew how to turn off the bomb, and just as he finishes, the former blogger can hear police sirens overhead. John turns disbelieving eyes on the other man and threatens without heat, “Oh, I’m definitely going to kill you.” Sherlock’s mirth never falters as he states, “Oh please! Killing me? That was _sooo_ two years ago.”

Despite himself, John can feel laughter bubble up inside him. He turns his head to hide his grin but his shoulders shake with silent mirth. Much later, the blond man would realize that that was the point of this entire endeavor.

Maybe that is why John soon finds himself inside Baker Street, months later, about to ask Sherlock the big question. Today is the big day! Today he is going to ask Sherlock to be his best man.

He tries to take a subtle approach, but it seems to go over the genius’s head. Was Sherlock being deliberately dense, or did he want to hear the words come out of John’s mouth? Maybe John should just spell it out, “Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life,” When Sherlock begins to interrupt, John cuts him off with, “No, it is! It is, and I want the _two_ people I love and care about most in the world to be there.”

When Sherlock only continues to remain oblivious John sighs and begrudgingly states, “Mary Morstan and…you.” The only reply John gets is a rapid fire blinking from the other man. After several long minutes and this has not ceased, John begins to worry. After repeating the detective’s name several times, Sherlock finally snaps out of it and haltingly inquires, “So, in fact… Y-you mean that I’m your best…”

“…man.”

“…friend?”

John’s smile turns soft as he gently replies, “Yeah. ‘ _Course_ you are. ‘ _Course_ you’re my best friend.” Sherlock’s expression never truly loses the shocked disbelief after the other man’s confession, and after drinking eyeball infested tea, John has a clue in to Sherlock’s frame of mind.

    As John leaves that evening to return to the house he now shares with Mary, best man now confirmed, the thoughts and doubts he has been denying spring to the front of his mind. Not for the first time, does John realize how wrong this all feels. Yes, by proposing he is making a promise to Mary. He is promising to love and care for her, but it all feels so dishonest. Marriage is the ultimate sign of love and devotion, but how can he truly love Mary fully when Sherlock is alive? He only started dating Mary to begin with as a distraction.

 Yes, he still loves the detective. He loves the detective more than ever, it seems, but he has made a commitment. He has made the commitment to move on. Besides, if the feelings were mutual, Sherlock wouldn’t have left to begin with. With that thought in mind, he straightens his shoulders and soldiers on.

It was not long after that the wedding preparations began. He could honestly care less about the bride’s maid’s dresses or accent colors or whether the napkins are folded as a swan or as the Sydney Opera House. You would think that considering that this day is meant to be the happiest, most important day of his life, he would care more, but you would be mistaken. Only his resolve and the mantra of ‘ _Sherlock does not feel the same way, you made a commitment to Mary,’_ keeps him from calling off the entire thing. If John needed any more proof that Sherlock did not care about him _in that way_ , he had the proof right in front of him. Sherlock readily and quickly agreed to help with everything. Obviously it was all one sided _._

* * *

 

Agony and Anguish are accurate words to describe how he’s feeling right now. Having to hear John verbalize his devotion to Mary was torture, but to watch John waltz and spin Mary around the room during their wedding waltz was slowly killing him. And he was jealous. Oh, how he was jealous. Sherlock wishes more than anything that he was the one dancing with John. He loves to dance.

Sherlock can feel his heart breaking as he watches them kiss at the end. With a flourish, he finishes the song he specifically composed for the wedding and steps down from the small stage to talk to the newlyweds about the new life just starting to grow. As soon as John and Mary are significantly distracted, he slips away as quickly as possible. He can no longer take watching the twin happy faces the Watson’s share on the day that will forever remain in his mind as the worst day of his life. Because on this day, he lost his everything.

As he travels back to Baker Street, heartbroken and beaten, his mind quickly turns dark and violent. Words he had tried desperately to delete without success spring forward demanding his attention. ‘ _Freak, sociopath, psychopath,_ **_Machine_ ** _.’_ In the end, Moriarty was right. He is weak. Spineless. Ordinary. He is no better than the rest of the masses. His self-hatred only mounts as he climbs the seventeen steps leading up to the flat. He is met with benighted halls and deafening silence.

 _Silence_ . Once, he would have welcomed it. Sound grated on his nerves. He felt as if his brain were rotting from the constant chatter other people supplied, but now, it only serves as a reminder of everything he has lost. It is in the darkness and silence that he finally allows the mask to fall away. He finally allows himself to feel all the sorrow that’s been building from that first day he arrived back at Baker Street without the one man he’s been fighting so hard to return to. It seems as though the once proud consulting detective is not above getting his heart broken. Mycroft’s words reverberate inside his skull, “ _Caring is not an advantage._ ” Sentiment is a contender on the losing side. ‘ _How pathetic_ ,’ a voice not unlike John’s taunts the distraught man.

The once self-assured, confident, ebony haired man has now been reduced to a sniveling, crying mess on the hardwood floors. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but when he does stand again, his feet have gone numb and his face feels tight where the tears have dried on his cheeks. He buries his hands into thick curls and pulls to try and ground himself before he is walking swiftly into the bedroom and over to the bookshelf sitting in the corner. He pulls down a copy of _Origin and Evolution of Planetary and Satellite Atmospheres._ He flips past the first twenty pages, and nestled among the hollowed crevices, lies a little black box containing one final dosage of Apathy. He quickly rolls up his sleeves, takes his belt, tightens the makeshift tourniquet, and inject the needle into a vein without any hint of hesitation. He just needs the pain to stop for a little while. He won’t become addicted again. He can handle it this time. He just needs to forget for a little while.

As he pushes the plunger down, the familiar feeling of all emotion slowly fading away, which once distressed him, quickly morphs into a welcomed sensation. Feeling absolutely nothing is better than the agony he once felt. He sinks down onto his carpeted flooring as his face blanks out and his eyes grow vacant. He is hollowed out and empty, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

 

One month. One quiet, peaceful, domestic, **BORING** month later, and he still hasn’t heard from Sherlock. John had tried to find him after the wedding, but he was gone. At the time, John thought that that was probably for the best. At the time, he was feeling too raw, too vulnerable, and he would not have been able to handle Sherlock’s piercing and knowing glint in the other man’s eyes. Now, however, he is feeling isolated even though Mary is wrapped up in his arms. That’s why, when he hears a frantic, impatient knock at the door, he is almost relieved that Sherlock came to him.

Oh…Not Sherlock, but finally! Excitement! Adventure! At this point, anything to get life to have some vibrancy again is preferred. As he steps into the synthetic emotion den, he successfully and quickly overpowers a user. He leaves him lying on the floor and continues his search for Kate’s son. When he finally finds the younger man, he gently ushers him outside to his awaiting wife. It wasn’t until he hears a quiet, “Did you come for me too?” that he instantly freezes. He slowly turns toward the familiar baritone voice and discovers the consulting detective looking filthy while sporting a lazy grin as he gazes blearily up at his dear friend.

John can feel the anger steadily rising as Sherlock’s smile never falters from his face. The doctor in him knows that Sherlock is steadily coasting down from his high, but his anger does not abate or falter for a single moment. He refuses to believe the detective’s story about being undercover. Because of this, his eyes narrow and he harshly grabs the detective’s arm and jerks him upward to stand. John is surprised he didn’t break Sherlock’s arm as he forcefully pushes the other man down the long hallway and out the door. The ride to Kate’s house (to drop off Isaac) and then to Barts was bitterly quiet. Because of John’s burning fury, it’s up to Mary to tell Molly that Sherlock would be needing a drug test. With a resounding _slap_ Molly confirms what John already knew. Traces of Apathy are still in Sherlock’s system, but it is slowly fading.

He must get out of here. He needs to get away before he does something incredibly stupid like punch the detective in the face or hug him tightly until he finds out what is wrong because he _knows_ Sherlock. Apathy is used to forget and to stop someone from feeling anything at all. He _knows_ that there is something else seriously wrong that has nothing to do with being undercover. Deep down, although he would never admit it out loud, he knows that it has something to do with him. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that the timing is no coincidence. John’s no longer at Baker Street. The flat is cold and empty and Sherlock is alone once more. Without being told in so many words, John knows Sherlock’s life is a lonely one. He had admitted on several instances that John is his only friend.

What’s worse is that John promised Sherlock that nothing would change, but obviously, everything has. There have been no cases, no late-night chases, no cancelled plans at the last minute because, “A suspect is getting away, **hurry** John!” John is **supposed** to move on. He’s made a promise and a commitment to Mary, and he’s going to keep it. He and Mary had a child to think about. With that in mind, he leaves. He leaves and doesn’t look back because if he does, he would not be able to leave the building. So, he leaves Sherlock behind in the desolate lab alone with his new _prodigy_ and he takes Mary home.

Mary and John don’t talk about it. She leaves him to his thoughts and doesn’t say a word when he rises early the next morning to go to Baker Street to yell at the infuriating man some more. However, when he arrives at his old flat, he is met with the sight of Sherlock and Janine kissing _very_ thoroughly as Janine leaves, presumably, for work. Sherlock’s fond smile slips off his face completely as he goes back to case mode in the blink of an eye. Whilst this is all occurring, a disbelieving smile spreads across his face and he tries to subtly look around the room for cameras for that ‘Gotcha!’ moment. When he finds none, his smile slowly turns into one crestfallen shock. When John is sure Janine has gone, he finally turns back to the detective, clears his throat, and tries desperately to hide his jealousy as he questions Sherlock about the nature of his relationship with Janine.

Fortunately for John, Sherlock is rather distracted as he mutters something along the lines of ‘ _We’re in a good place. Everything is very affirming,_ ’ whatever the hell that means. Sherlock quickly jumps tracks and begins talking rapidly about Charles Augustus Magnussen. John’s still stuck on the girlfriend thing. The former blogger would love to question Sherlock further about Janine and the extent of their relationship, but it is in that moment Magnussen makes an appearance at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

 

If you would ask John, his instant response would be that he, “is a creepy bugger,” and he would then quickly change conversation onto something much more pleasant. Magnussen is the epitome of a disturbed megalomaniac. Sherlock is, of course, very horrified but intrigued by the other man. Maybe that is why Sherlock stormed headfirst into the businessman’s office under the ruse of proposing to Janine (John, of course, is silently _very_ pleased).

The first obvious mistake of the night occurs when the dynamic duo split up as Sherlock barrels up the stairway and John sits with Janine until she regains consciousness or until the ambulance he called arrives. It wasn’t until Sherlock walks into the spacious office to find Magnussen lying dead from a bullet wound to the head, and a figure dressed in all black standing over the man’s lifeless corpse.

“Lady Smallwood, I understand that you were very distressed, but I was—.” The figure before him turns slowly and the shocked man comes face-to-face with Mary Elizabeth Watson. She cocks her gun and aims it at his chest before coolly stating, “Is John here with you?” He gapes at her for a moment before stumbling out, “He’s um…downstairs.” Mary nods once but keeps her gun aimed at the ebony haired man’s chest. Sherlock goes to take a step forward but as Mary narrows her eyes, he decides against it. Sherlock tries to softly beseech her, “Please, Mary. Let me help you. You don’t have to do this. He can’t hurt you anymore.” The assigns eyes flash darkly before she mutters out coldly, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I hate to do it this way, but you’re collateral now. Can’t have that, can we?”

Sherlock goes to take a step forward, arm outstretched to pacify the woman in front of him, but as soon as his foot is lifted from the ground, Mary fires—Sherlock in the chest.

As soon as the bullet makes contact, Alarm bells sound inside his mind as Mary slips away unnoticed. He only has a few chances at survival, but even if he executes these strategies perfectly, he will still probably die. Murdered by the woman he promised to protect in order to keep John happy. None of that matters now, does it? As he falls on his back he quickly recognizes the first signs of shock and he begins to desperately search his Mind Palace for anything to calm himself down. ‘I’m being put down, too,’ Sherlock thinks as Redbeard ambles toward him gleefully. He continues onward, but Jim Moriarty is the next to visit him. Softly Moriarty begins to chant of Sherlock’s inevitable death. It wasn’t until his next words that Sherlock begins trying to desperately claw his way back to life, “John will cry buckets and buckets. It’s him that I worry about the most. That _wife_! You’re letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger.” With a pained grunt, Mind Palace Sherlock slowly and painfully gets to his feet, leaves the room, and begins the slow ascent to life.

Slowly, his eyes open and he stares up at his surgeon and he desperately utters out a choked, “Mary,” before unconsciousness pulls him under once more. The next thing he clearly remembers—although everything is still fuzzy around the edges—is Mary’s singsong voice demanding, “Sherlock, don’t you dare tell John,” before, once more, succumbing. When he wakes up the third time, he knows that he will stay lucid and coherent until he himself is ready to sleep. He looks to his right and there sits Janine. After a, surprisingly, tame conversation, Sherlock decides that Mary must be found and that it is time to leave, but first, he needs to go to the flat to move some furniture around. He gets away so easily. ‘ _Idiots.’_

When he finally finishes at Baker Street, it only takes a few hours, and he knows he’s hot on her trail. He pulls out his phone and calls John.

* * *

 

She **knew.** **SHE** **knew** how badly Sherlock’s death affected him the first time around, yet she murdered him in cold blood. After finding out that Mary was the one to kill his best friend and Magnussen, he could not even bear to look at her. John collected Sherlock and he left as quickly as possible. He refused to answer any calls, he refused to reply to texts, and he **won’t** be reading the file Mary—or whatever her _real_ name is—gave him. ‘ _How_ ** _dare_** _she_ ,’ John thinks bitterly as he begins to recklessly grabs the box containing Christmas lights from Mrs. Hudson’s flat and then begins to pound his way back up the stairs. All the while struggling with the front door, which he does not close after finally getting it open after five minutes of fumbling, and the Christmas boxes as he continues to viciously think, _‘How dare she hurt me in this way. I had lost Sherlock once, but I will make_ ** _damn_** _sure I won’t lose him again. I_ **can’t** _lose him again. I can’t keep living this way. Maybe I should_ — _.’_

That’s how Sherlock finds John. He’s sitting on the hardwood floors of Baker Street muttering to himself as he attacks each tangled knot with more venom than is specifically required. Out of John’s line of vision, he allows worry and sadness to overtake his angular features at his friend’s obvious anger and distress. He quickly wipes his face clean of any emotion, places an indifferent mask on his face, and only then he states, “The answer is no.”

The older man jumps, not realizing that Sherlock had even left his bedroom, let alone entered the living room. When he finally registers what the other man said, understandable confusion mars John’s facial features. The Consulting Detective rolls his eyes and continues, “No, we will not be having a Christmas party this year.” Sherlock knows that that is not what John was just thinking of, but he is hoping it will be an adequate distraction against the darkness pervading John’s thoughts. John knows what he’s doing, and he’s grateful for it.

John’s shoulders lose some of their tension as he asks, “Alright, so what are we doing instead? Quiet night at home?” The older man would never admit it out loud, but the thought isn’t so unappealing. The Consulting Detective quickly dashes those thoughts as he goes over to the couch, draws his knees up so that he is propped against the corner, gazes steadily at the ceiling, and petulantly whines, “Not quite. My mother has invited us to Christmas dinner this afternoon.”

John could feel the butterflies threatening to wage war on his insides at what Sherlock’s words could imply. However, the detective’s reaction is…off. ‘ _Maybe…Sherlock doesn’t actually want me to go,’_ John’s butterflies instantly turn to lead at the thought. Panic briefly overtakes him until logic informs him that Sherlock wouldn’t have said anything at all, if that were the case. So…that can’t be it. John tries to desperately read Sherlock like the detective so easily reads John without prevail. With a sigh of frustration, John’s voice is deceitfully calm as he inquires, “So, what’s the problem?” After what feels like an eternity, Sherlock quietly states, “I invited Mary along. We are all expected to be there at half three tonight.”

As Sherlock had expected, John explodes, “Sherlock, why the hell did you do that? What on Earth were you thinking? What possible inclination did I give that made you think that I would ever want to see her again?!” Sherlock curses his transport as he unsubtly flinches at John’s tone, but he completely ignores what John said as he replies, “While your anger is understandable, it is completely unnecessary.”

This, of course, only enrages John further and his voice mounts in rising volume, “Unnecessary?! Sherlock—. How could you even— _._ She has lied to me from the moment we met. More importantly, she shot you!” The blogger sees red as the Consulting Detective snorts and waves his hand in dismissal at John’s words, but the former blogger soldiers on, “Plus, did you forget ‘has trust issues?’ And how can you act nonchalantly about the fact that she shot and murdered you? How on Earth could you possibly forgive her?”

The Consulting Detective rolls his eyes, but eventually states, “John, really, she’s your wife. She’ll do something to gain your trust again. You can’t stay mad at her forever. You’re going to have a baby. You’re going to have to forgive her eventually, for your child, if nothing else.” The older man’s blood burns through his veins as Sherlock remains impassive, apathetic, and imperious when he has no idea what he is talking about.

“It’s not that simple! You cannot _possibly_ understand what this is like, Sherlock! You can’t possibly understand how I feel! First, you go traipsing all across the world without me for god only knows what reason, and now my wife has lied to me from the very beginning! Oh, but I suppose it doesn’t matter to the _great_ Sherlock Holmes, though, does it,” John’s voice escalates until it seems various picture frames shake on the walls.

Sherlock stares as John exudes obvious anger and frustration. The detective desperately wants to correct the other man, but he holds his tongue, curls up in the familiar leather of the couch, and he grips his curls tightly as he quickly lowers his head against his knees to prevent John from reading his expression. He swallows thickly before he inquires as impassively as possible, “What exactly do you want from me, John?”

John's anger flares once again and he bites out, “Stop playing these fucking games with me! Do you really want to know?” When he doesn’t receive a response, he barrels on, “I want you to leave me the hell alone! Stop interfering with my life! Stop telling me what I should and shouldn’t do!” Ebony curls somehow sink even lower and pale digits tighten in silky ringlets in an effort to appear smaller than he already does. The only sound that could be heard escapes passed John's lips in angry exhales. Due to this, John almost misses the whispered, “I’m trying.”

The blogger’s shoulders sag as the anger that once burned so intently leaves as quickly as it appeared. Confusion quickly overtakes him; however, as he gazes down at the consulting detective’s once proud frame. The confident, hard lines of Sherlock’s body are gone and they leave behind this fragile creature in their place. A shocked, “What did you say?” now hangs between the pair.

If John hadn't been looking at Sherlock, he would have missed the nearly imperceptible flinch that he tries desperately to hide but can't when John speaks these words. Since John is staring so intently at Sherlock; however, he sees it all. The consulting detective’s voice wavers momentarily before evening out as he states, “I said I'm trying to. I haven't said anything to Mary. I haven't done anything to drive her way. I didn't interrupt your life with her. I'm trying, John, but… you came back. You came back to Baker Street, and staying away has become so hard.” The impassive façade momentarily drops as his voice waivers, once again, with usually concealed emotion. He tries and fails to get his vocal chords under control, but his words sound strangled and sad as he continues, “I thought you wanted me to come back. I was there that day. I heard you. You asked for a miracle, and I fought so hard to give you one…”

“I tried to do what's right by you. You wanted space, I gave you that. You wanted me to be your best man, and I gave you that, too. I know that my return was a bit...sudden and unexpected. I did not intend to cause you any more pain or unnecessary grief. Despite what you may believe, John, I am only a human. I can only do so much. I’m not a hero. I’m selfish, rude, and generally an obnoxious arsehole. That’s why I need you to go back to her. Go back to Mary. I can't do it all on my own. So, please, go and be happy. I’ve caused you enough grief.”

John stares at Sherlock’s curled up body sitting rigidly clutching tightly to John’s signature Union Jack pillow. For once, the blogger stares at the obviously miserable detective and actually **looks** _. ‘You see but you do not observe,_ ’ reverberates against John’s cranium as he finally notices the crystal-clear signs of distress. In fact, Sherlock hasn’t been able to hide what he’s feeling since he came back home. To think he once thought this was a game. John finally looks past what Sherlock is saying to what he actually _means_.

‘ _He’s afraid._ ’ John can see that now. Sherlock is absolutely terrified of what John will say, but above that, he’s afraid of what he believes John will inevitably do. He doesn't want to watch John go because he knows he may never see John again if he walks through that door. Sherlock can't bear to watch as his heart is broken again.

As much as Sherlock proclaims to be a sociopath and a machine, he’s nothing more than a man. A man willing to let everything he has ever wanted walk away for a second time, all to ensure John’s happiness. When Mary shot Sherlock, she was only looking to **keep** John. She’s never done anything out of love. Love is meant to be selfless. Love doesn't try to stifle and break another human being in order to protect herself. Love whispers, “Go back to her. _Please_. Just be happy.”

That’s what this is, isn't it? Sherlock loves him. He is willing to lose everything for John...because he _loves_ him. My God...how could he have been so blind?

John feels like the idiot Sherlock so often calls him as he stares down at the man a waiting for his world to end. The blogger feels determined as he marches over to the door and firmly closes it. This is not a conversation that needs to get interrupted before it’s been completed. As he turns around to finally hash everything out, he stops in his tracks as he sees the detective’s thin frame imperceptibly begins to shudder. The blogger instantly realizes how this has been perceived and he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. _‘Good move, Watson.’_ He takes several silent steps forward until he is directly in front of the detective before speaking in undisguised affection, “You know, to be a genius, you really are an idiot.”

 

‘ _Stupid, stupid.’_ Sherlock silently berates himself for not realizing John had not actually _left_. Admittedly, he could not hear anything beyond John’s retreating footsteps and the closing door before his mind unhelpfully started screaming at him, ‘ _John’s gone. John’s never coming back. John left again. He’s never coming back. You’re an idiot. No one would ever_ —.’ But of course, John’s voice breaks the self-hatred and causes him to freeze because that means that he’s been caught in his _feelings_. With Sherlock’s exclamations, there’s no way that John will take his words platonically. Of _course_ , John wouldn’t want to leave right away. They would have to _talk_ about it. Before turning to look at the other man, Sherlock tries desperately to hide the anguish that is, no doubt, etched into his angular features. However, judging by John’s expression, the usually unobservant man actually paid attention for once.

For the second time that evening, Sherlock begins to hide behind an uncaring mask until John gently reaches out and grabs the detective’s wrist and quietly pleads, “No, please, Sherlock. Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me. I know that’s what you are doing. I understand now.” To John’s relief the mask slips away and John receives a brief look into what Sherlock is truly feeling. For a moment, John can see all the fear and sadness behind the cold exterior, the heart behind the machine. For once, Sherlock drops the act and looks utterly miserable.

Under John’s scrutiny, Sherlock raises one self-conscious hand up and absentmindedly scratches his chest where Mary had shot him. John’s anger once again flares to life, but this time, it’s not aimed at the detective. John takes a deep breath and forcefully relaxes and softens his voice as he gently inquires, “Sherlock, why do you want me to go back to her?” There is a long pause and John hesitates thinking of asking again in case the detective wasn’t listening or hadn’t heard, but before John can open his mouth, the lanky man’s head drops down to his chest as he refuses to look John in the eyes as he quietly replies, “Because…you...you... chose her.”

Everything for John suddenly slams to an abrupt stop. His heart lurches in his chest as he takes in the other man’s quiet words. How anyone, especially John himself, could think Sherlock as being a cold machine is beyond John’s comprehension. He regrets ever insinuating that he ever believed it to be true. But no more. This would end today. John sits down in front of the detective on the coffee table and prepares himself for the discussion that needed to happen from the beginning.

John doesn’t want to lie to the other man and because of that, for the first time, he is completely honest when he replies with, “I chose her once, yes. You were gone. You left me alone again—which we are still going to talk about at some point—but this time, I couldn’t hail a cab or scale a wall to reach you. I wanted to join you most days, though. I almost followed you several times, in fact. I sat in my room with my gun in my mouth thinking of how easy it would have been to pull the trigger.”

 

His voice wavers dangerously as he continues with, “When I returned back from Afghanistan, Clara, visited me and told me that Harry had killed herself.” He wipes at his face, trying to stive back tears, “Overdosed on Joy, which is why I reacted so negatively when I found out you did drugs..I just kept thinking of how I never got the opportunity to say goodbye to Harry. I couldn’t save either of you.”

 

John looks utterly miserable as he recounts so many terrible memories, “For the longest time, I thought I had drove you to suicide. The things I told you were awful and I thought I just added to the fact. That guilt and the pain of having you gone was proving to be too much.” Sherlock’s distress is palpable at John’s retelling, but before he can say anything, John fully laces his fingers between Sherlock’s own and continues, “But then I met Mary. She arrived in my life when I needed someone, and yes, in a way, I loved her, but then this lanky git of a detective appears out of nowhere for the second time to change my world entirely. Yes, Sherlock. You’re right. In a way, I was happy, I was trying to make the most out of my new half-life. I was trying desperately to move on, but then you came back to me and I no longer need to. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face morphs throughout John’s speech from the utter heartbreak over John’s obvious distress at having him gone, to utter confusion. He looks at John and the older man’s heart breaks when he notices that this once self-assured man could look so lost. Taking pity on the childlike man, John gently squeezes the digits wrapped tightly within his own before a warm smile spreads across his face as he gently states, “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I plan to stay here with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

           John holds his breath as he waits for an answer. Silence and the disconcerting blinking from before returns full force as the Consulting Detective tries to desperately understand what John is implying. Cupid bowed lips open once as if he is about to reply, but his mouth closes as the rapid blinking continues. John doesn’t say anything. The small smile never leaves John’s face as he sits silently waiting for the detective to process the turn of events. After what feels like an eternity has passed, Sherlock finally speaks, “So…you mean to say, that is, you’re happy here—.”

           “…At Baker Street?”

           “…With me?”

           Sherlock’s mouth opens again as if to respond, but no words escape. His mouth closes as he continues to look lost and so unsure. After a few moments, Sherlock’s expression morphs between wariness and earth shattering hope and John can’t help but hug him tightly. John’s small smile falters briefly as he is reminded of another instance eerily familiar to this one, but he quickly pushes onward with a strong, “Of course I am. I’m happy to be here with you.”

They remain like that for a few moments longer. Sherlock finally allowing himself to relax in the other man’s arms until he stiffens once more when a thought comes to mind. He pulls back slightly to look at his dear friend with a troubled expression that darkens Sherlock’s handsome features as he asks, “But John, what about Mary? The baby? I suspect your marriage will become increasingly complicated if you are not present.”

The older man finds peace in his decision and his smile only grows as he carefully tucks a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s eyes widen, but before he can ask what exactly is going on, John states, “I don’t want to place any child in position to become accustomed to constant anger and spewed hatred. As for Mary, I can’t continue to live there. I can barely stand to look at her and I can’t stand what she’s done to you. She and I will be talking quite a bit tomorrow about our relationship or the lack there of.”

The consulting detective tries once more to persuade John to reconsider, but he is having none of it. He’s thought this through. He’s been thinking about this since the moment Sherlock woke up at the hospital and these feelings are just reaffirmed when he found out it was Mary that shot him. There are no warring emotions. When he was going to marry Mary, there had been this niggling doubt at the back of his mind. But, for once, he is sure. With a decided course of action, John soldiers on straight ahead without hesitation. With a determined nod, he finishes hanging the decorations and determines they have a little over half an hour to get ready before they must go to be on time. He gently pushes Sherlock into his room to get dressed before he travels up the stairs to change into a festive jumper. When he finally descends, the stairs leading from his room, Sherlock is ready to go and is waiting for John near the door. John grabs his coat and then they’re off.

When they arrive at the Holmes’ residence, Sherlock quickly goes to find his mother and father in the kitchen as John departs and goes to find Mary in the living room. As soon as he enters the room, Mary begins struggling to stand, but John walks over to her and helps her up. He quickly lets go of her hand and steps back to regard her silently. There is a long pause in which neither of them say anything. Despite the peace John feels in his decision, John can’t help the white-hot anger that spills through him at the sight of the woman he once proudly called his wife. Mary’s face screws up in justified apprehension and worry at the prospect of what John will say.

John breathes out calmly and slowly before extending his hand to give her back the memory stick containing her classified information. She turns wide, fearful eyes on John.

“Did you—.”

“No, actually. I didn’t read it. I didn’t read anything.”

She seems to swallow thickly before haughtily continuing with, “So…What now?” John exhales loudly, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He steels himself briefly as the image of a distressed consulting detective comes to mind, but his mind blanks over and as a small smile splays across his tanned face in the freedom he finds with his decision.

“Mary, we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here were some of my thoughts while writing this chapter : "John, hunny, why do I write you this way (this is rhetorical, mind you, but I still question my sanity)?" and "I hate myself." That last one was very prominent. I thought that a lot during the wedding. I don't like Mary. It was so freeing to write John in this way. Where he finally just stops. It was freeing. It was like a catharisis. I felt my soul rising above the depths of hell from which I came. Sherlock is so sad and smol. He is just not doing well. 
> 
> If you are curious, I had a song in mind during the wedding It's called "Jealous" by Labyrinth (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXD52y9jsOU) or "Dancing on my own" Calum Scott's version (found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtGlvnbVun4).
> 
> Also, you may have noticed I changed something that does not happen during the show. That's not really important, honestly. I changed it because I believe that Mary would have shot Magnessum if Sherlock had not shown up before hand, so I just followed through. 
> 
> John is so unhappy. Just let them be happy. As a fanfiction writer I can do that! And, you may be happy to know that Love is close at hand. Like, next chapter just ahead. *coughs* As always, happy reading!


	8. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love conquers all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: I don't think there are any? If you see any, please, please let me know!  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful and helpful beta, and the ever so lovely Ariane DeVere (Linke here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for creating such a wonderful transcript to go by. I appreciate both of these lovely human beings.

“Mary, we need to talk.”

Who knew five words could feel so heavy, yet the weight settles over both of their shoulders. Mary can see John’s external struggle over what he is going to say, and because of that, she remains blessedly silent. Eventually, he takes a long slow breath, exhales, and begins, “I’ve thought long and hard about what I am going to say to you, but now—seeing you like this, here—none of those words fit. I’ve been thinking of this for a while. Long before you…did what you did, and that just affirmed what I was already thinking. I was filled with such hate for the pain you’ve caused. I felt betrayed and used in the worst possible way, and I had every intention of letting you have it. My words would have come from a place of malice, but that’s not what this situation warrants. To put it simply, what you’ve done is inexcusable. You knew—.” Here, John paused to compose himself before continuing, “You knew how much his death hurt me, how agonized I felt after his fall, yet you shot him and murdered him.”

When Mary tries to interrupt, for the first time that evening, John bellows out, “I’m  **not** finished!” He clears his throat and as calmly as he can muster continues, “I called you. I updated you as to what was happening with him, but you already  **knew** . You already knew what had happened because you were there.  **You** were the one to put him on that operation table. Whatever is on that flash drive is your business. That information is yours and only yours. With Magnussen gone, I suppose you no longer have to worry about any of that information getting out. I don’t want any part of it. You can continue living life as Mary Morstan for the end of your days.”

The fact that John did not call her Mary Watson did not go past the astute woman. She knew what would be happening here, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t try to convince him otherwise. Tears begin falling down her face rapidly as she tries to desperately change John’s mind, “Please, John! Listen to me! I had to get rid of Magnussen. I would have gone to jail for the rest of my life! I did what I did because I lo—.”

Suddenly, John’s face goes very red as he seethes out, “You have never done anything for me out of love! You did what you did to  **keep** me. What you did was not love, Mary! You shot Sherlock to protect yourself. Sherlock was willing to help you—is  **still** willing to help you. He begged me to forgive you. He is a better person than you will ever be.”

Mary’s face morphs from despair to comprehension in a matter of minutes as she breathes out, “Oh, my god. You love him.” Silence falls throughout the room as they stare at each other until finally, John huffs out, “Alright, fine. Yes, I love him. I love Sherlock Holmes.”

Behind the pair, glass hits the floor and shatters. Two heads swiftly turn to see a stunned detective, hands still in the motion of holding two mugs that are no longer there, blinking rapidly at John’s outburst. Sherlock pulls himself together enough to mumble out a string of words that do not necessarily make sense in the order they were spoken, and flees the room. John moves to follow, but a sudden movement from Mary draws his attention back to her. For a moment, John thinks that Mary is going to slap him, but she simply pulls off her wedding ring and drops it onto the coffee table. The sound of metal hitting the wood is deafening in the near-silent room. She hobbles over to the sofa and grabs her coat. She struggles to put it on, but eventually manages it. She steps to the front door, but calls over her shoulder as she goes to leave, “Somehow I knew I couldn’t compete with Lazarus in there. You were never mine to begin with, but despite all that, I hope you will be happy. Sherlock is a lucky man, John. You deserve everything coming to you.” With a slam of the door, she is gone.

Admittedly, that could have gone a lot smoother than it did, but he feels better knowing that everything is out in the open. One problem dealt with, now to go find Sherlock. He didn't want Sherlock finding out this way, but now he doesn’t have to worry about how he’s going to tell the detective, so that’s a plus. If he and Sherlock could end up together, then that will be at least one good thing that comes out of this.

He spots the detective out in the garden with Mycroft smoking and visibly arguing with his brother, and, if he listens closely enough, John is certain he can hear his name spoken anxiously in that deep baritone voice. Just as he goes to make his grand entrance to talk to Sherlock, Mycroft looks up, spots the ex-army doctor, makes a vague statement to Sherlock, and turns to leave. As he walks through the door, he turns to John and stares at him coldly and intensely for a moment before saying, “Sherlock Holmes is a great man. He is intelligent, sophisticated, and wise beyond anyone his age. His one weakness, John, is the sentiment he feels for you. You cause him to lose all thought of reason. He rushes into burning debris to save your life even when all reason tells a sensible person to run away. He has endured much heartache, pain, and suffering all for your sake, Doctor Watson. If I ever find out that you have lied to him or about him, there is no force on earth that could ever stop me from finding you and then terminating you. There have been countless people in Sherlock’s life to try and break him. You are the one person who can do that. I assume that I don’t have to inform you that I’ll be watching?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing, smile cold and dark, “Fantastic. I hope we won’t have this conversation again,” With that ominous statement, Mycroft goes into the kitchen to tell his mother goodbye.

John stares wide eyed at the place Mycroft just vacated before he blows out a slow breath as he reaches a hand up and rubs the back of his neck. Fortunately for John, he has no intention of breaking Sherlock’s heart, and if John’s right—and if Mycroft’s ominous threat is anything to go by—Sherlock shares his feelings, so, really, that shouldn’t be an issue. Besides, they’ve both been through enough heartache. It was finally time to make this right.

He turns to walk out the door and talk to Sherlock, but as he turns, broad smile quickly falling off his face, he quickly discovers that Sherlock is gone. He then begins his search for the elusive detective. As he is searching the kitchen, Mummy Holmes grabs his hand and pulls him aside to motheringly whisper, “John, dear. What’s wrong with my Billy? Did something happen? I heard the door slam. Where’s Mary, dear?”

He gently squeezes her hands and replies, “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, but I’m going to go and talk to him about it. Mary won’t be coming back and I’m permanently moving back to Baker Street. Don’t you worry about him, Mrs. Holmes. I’ll take care of him.” She stared at him for what was beginning to feel like an eternity until finally, hope slowly encompasses her elegant features, “Does that mean…?”

The former soldier’s smile spreads broadly across his face as he nods his head slowly. Suddenly, he finds himself engulfed tightly in Mummy’s tight embrace.

“Oh, John! I just knew it would sort itself out! He’s always had it bad for you, you know. I always thought so, but when he came back from that awful time from abroad and now with his recent bout with the synthetic emotions... it was obvious. Constantly writing letters to Mikey about you, demanding to know how you were doing. That sort of thing.”

John’s heart breaks at hearing this. Guilt envelops him, nearly sending him to his knees as he thinks, ‘ _ If I had just waited a few more days… None of this mess would be an issue. Sherlock would not have gone back to the synthetics and he wouldn’t have gotten shot...’  _ He shakes his head to clear his muddled thoughts. What’s done is done. They have the rest of their lives to make things right. They would finally be together. He closes his eyes tightly and he hugs her back a bit tighter until he finally leans back in her arms, breaks her hold on him, and he shares a small smile and asks if she’s seen him. She directs him toward the living room. He travels through the house until he reaches the designated room but stops just outside the doorway to watch the detective pace back and forth in clear distress and agitation.

Sherlock suddenly turns, eyes clenched tightly, throws his hands up into his curls, and pulls. With a determined nod, hands slowly extract themselves, he stops pacing, and he opens his eyes as he takes one step forward. However, the other man stops short as he sees John standing awkwardly by the entrance.

Before Sherlock can clamp down onto any and all emotion, his facial expression morphs into one of fear and anxiety before it tries desperately to keep his emotions in check. He fails miserably. John cautiously steps forward until they can face each other properly. As John opens his mouth to speak, the Consulting Detective blurts out, “Mary left you and by the state of her wedding ring she knew that would be the case. She will contact a lawyer tomorrow to ask about a divorce filing. However, if you act now, you can stop her. You can call her and talk her out of it. I’m sure she will be amenable to—.”

He is interrupted abruptly by John’s laughter. Pale cheeks inflame and the ridiculous, lanky man tries to cover up his embarrassment with a mixture of outrage and a haughty expression. John quickly derails any pending strops by closing the distance between them by crushing him in a hug. The detective struggles against John’s hold briefly before going slack in John’s arms. He cautiously returns the embrace and a near inaudible sigh escapes past cupid bowed lips. John’s arms tighten as he begins to speak, “Now, I want you to listen to me closely without interrupting, all right?” With Sherlock’s small nod, John continues, “I am not going back to Mary. No, love. Listen. “When Sherlock quietens down again, he starts again but not before gently running fingers through soft, dark curls, “You may find this hard to believe, but there is no one I’d rather be with. I want to live at Baker Street with you, if that’s what you want too.”

Sherlock stiffens again, but does not withdraw as he inquires softly, “John, why—. What are you saying?”

John brings the hand from Sherlock’s hair to angular features and looks into his eyes as he states with a small smile, “I’m trying to explain to you that you are the best and wisest man I’ve ever known, and I love you with all I have.”

Instead of reaffirming words or kisses or warmth as John is expecting, the Consulting Detective in front of him struggles violently to escape from John’s arms. When Sherlock finally manages to extract himself, the ebony haired man face is contorted in fury as he bitterly bites out, “I know you think I’m a machine, but even I know that’s not funny, John. I would prefer you leave me out of your attempts to distance yourself from your wife. I don’t appreciate lies any more than the next person, nor do I appreciate being made fun of.” While Sherlock’s face is twisted in deep anger, his eyes hold a deep vulnerability and sadness that no one without a Holmes penetrative gaze—or one John Watson—could see.  Sherlock walks across room to the doorway, but he stops when John calls out for him. He does not turn around, but John continues on anyway, “Sherlock, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Out of all the deductions that you’ve gotten wrong, this is the biggest one. I’m in no way trying to get away from Mary by using you! I would never hurt you in that way. I’m not making fun of you, Sherlock. I’ve meant every word I’ve said to you tonight. I love you! Look at me! Deduce me!”

A few minutes pass until finally, the detective turns, slowly, and pierces John with his coldest, most calculating gaze. John spreads his arms wide and he tries to keep his facial features as open and honest as he can make them. Minutes that feel like hours pass slowly until suddenly a desperate hope settles on his angular features and a whispered, “Do you mean it?”

John hated how small the detective sounded, but he did not hesitate in stepping forward and hugging Sherlock once more and whispering into his neck, “Yes, you bloody git. I love you. I always have and I always will.” It’s John who leans back this time and looks up into the detective’s face. The look of surprise and wonder makes John’s heart ache, but John just decides to start from that moment onward to let Sherlock know just how much he means to the blond man.

Out of the corner of John’s eyes, he notices a flash of green and white and with a smile he points up to draw the detective’s gaze. Mistletoe. John gazes up at the taller man and slowly leans into Sherlock’s space. He stops just before their lips meet, searching the detective’s gaze for any remaining doubt but with Sherlock’s soft, hesitant, hopeful smile, John is reassured and closes the remaining distance between them. Eyelids flutter closed at the barest hint of pressure. John’s hands find their way into dark curls as he tries to bring the taller man impossibly closer. Slender arms wrap around John’s waist as the kiss deepens into something more passionate. John’s tongue flicks out and licks Sherlock’s lower lip. Without hesitation, Sherlock allows John’s tongue into his mouth and a new dance of slow languid kisses ensuess. Slowly, gently, John extracts his lips to trails kisses across Sherlock’s forehead, to his temple, against each eyelid, on two sharp cheekbones, to the tip of his nose and until finally he kisses the younger man once again with tender devotion and love.

From the other room, Mummy Holmes calls out to the amorous pair informing them that dinner is ready. John places two more gentle kisses against cupid bowed lips before withdrawing resting their foreheads together. Sparkling verdigris eyes gaze into dark blue with uncensored love and devotion as twin smiles spread across their faces. John presses a sweet kiss against Sherlock’s cheek, takes Sherlock’s larger hand into his own and entwines their fingers. He inclines his head toward the kitchen and states, “Common, love. Let’s go eat.” The detective’s eyes twinkle as he replies, “Eating? Eating’s boring,” but he allows John to lead him into the kitchen anyway.

Dinner with the Holmes’s was filled with fond gazes, a mother’s beaming smile, a father’s knowing grin, and so much love throughout the entire evening. They never let the other go. Their hands stayed entwined throughout the entire evening, and as Wanda lays down that night in bed, she can’t help but thank the heavens above for sending one John Watson to her baby boy. She knows without a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock’s heart will be safe with John Watson.

As they lay there together cocooned in warmth and love in Sherlock’s childhood bedroom, warm hands gently rest against the other man’s heartbeat. They share several sweet kisses until John withdraws as sleep slowly takes them under. However, just before John is fully transported into sleep, his eyes shoot open and he asks a question that’s been haunting him for several hours now, “Sherlock, why does your mother call you Billy?”

* * *

 

They are all playing a game and sometimes, a few pieces must be lost to win the ultimate prize, and yes, some pieces were already destroyed, but this was all considered from the very beginning. This isn’t about the game anymore. Oh, no. This is about  **revenge** . It was always known that this was a possibility after Sherlock’s return from Siberia alive, but it wasn’t known at what point that this would all transpire so quickly. This just means the next stage of the plan is to be implemented right away.

The springs are loaded and the gears are locked into place.  _ Soon _ . From the moment Sherlock’s agonized cries for John Watson began when his tormentors finally ceased terrorizing him for a few hours, it was finally discovered just how to break the once proud Sherlock Holmes. What better way than to strike at the heart of the cold, calculating machine? Oh, yes. Sherlock’s heart would indeed  _ burn _ . It’s time to finally keep that promise. It’s time to burn John Hamish Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most prevailing, constant thought this entire chapter was: "FINALLY. THANK FUCKING GOODNESS."
> 
> I, pretty much, wrote this chapter from the very beginning. I've been waiting to post this chapter for so, so long...You don't know how much it pained me to wait this long. They love each other. I will always believe that. 
> 
> My roomate, Kay, listened to this chapter and at the end, she stated, "Why does it have to be an odd number (this is technically chapter 7)?! Why can't it be an even number?! Even numbers are divisable by 2 and it takes to people to make love!!!" Needless to say, she was advocating for the love to be known from the beginning. She did not succeed XD.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always, happy reading!!!


	9. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally settle into their relationship and John confronts Sherlock about the scars on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of voilence (off screen?) and disfigurement (all of these are just to be safe. I am always trying to look out for people, so if you see anything that needs to be tagged, let me know, please).  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely thoughtful and extraordinary beta.

John and Sherlock are incredibly happy with their new-found relationship. Things only got awkward when they arrived back at Baker Street and an unspoken, ‘ _ Now what? _ ’ screams out at them in their silence. The amorous pair dance around each other without knowing quite how to just come together and  _ be. _ They have cuddled on the sofa and they hold hands, but John seems to have shied back on more physical aspects of their relationship. At first, Sherlock thought John was having second thoughts, but by the way John’s eyes would linger on cupid-bowed lips, Sherlock could deduce the obvious attraction. The detective wants more. He wants to kiss John and hold him and be held by him when they fall asleep at night. He wants everything John will willingly give him.

It’s not until Sherlock goes to Mrs. Hudson’s flat one late January evening that he notices an inconspicuous hint of shriveled up green and white taped against the doorframe, forgotten when Mrs. Hudson cleaned the rest of her Christmas decorations up, that he gets an idea. With Mrs. Hudson’s emphatic approval, he travels back up the seventeen steps leading up to 221B, pauses just outside the door, takes a deep breath, and enters in. His John is standing at the stove preparing two celebratory cups of tea because today the divorce was finalized, however, he pauses as he feels Sherlock’s body heat seep into the back of his beige jumper.

He turns toward the detective and leans against the counter and reaches out a warm hand to rest against Sherlock’s forearm as he inquires, “Do you want anything, love?” Slowly, Sherlock nods his head and blushes deeply as John’s smile only grows fonder; however, Sherlock doesn’t move or speak as he seems to wage an internal war about what to say.

John doesn’t mind, an adoring smile spreads across his features as the older man can’t help but notice how adorable Sherlock is, but this thought is immediately derailed when Sherlock extends a long, lanky arm to hold something over their heads. When John looks up, he notices the same familiar flash of mistletoe that once initiated their first kiss.

The detective quickly leans in and kisses John’s cheek before withdrawing anxiously to await John’s response. John, however, quickly erases any doubt that could have even began to form as he places the ebony haired man’s face between his palms and kisses the other man deeply. When John finally withdraws, the tea has grown absolutely tepid, but kisses are much more important than tea any day.

A long contented sigh escapes past Sherlock’s lips as a small smile spreads across his features. The other man is still amazed that this brilliant man is his. It’s hard to picture Sherlock as the once cold, cruel man that once terrorized Scotland Yard. This thought causes John to become even more aware of how grateful he is that Sherlock came back to him, that he came home. Gentle hands shift to the side of a pale neck and down long arms to bony hips as he draws Sherlock closer and into another kiss. The ebony haired man goes willingly and kisses back with as much enthusiasm as the very first time.

As soft kisses turn into something more heated, John’s questing hands begin to roam into dark hair, grasp onto a plum colored shirt, travels down to prominent hip bones to pull Sherlock flush against him, until finally trailing up the taller man’s back. At the first touch of raised, jagged skin both men tense, but it is Sherlock that withdraws completely and puts enough distance between them so that they are not touching and John would have to take five large steps to do so.

They gaze at each other in silence. Sherlock’s face contorts into one of fear as he waits for John to say something. Finally, the older man points a shaking hand at the detective and swallows thickly before he forces out, “Sherlock, what the  **hell** is that?!”

Even though he knows it’s coming, Sherlock still flinches at John’s tone, but he anxiously tries to explain it away by stating, “Really, John. It’s nothing! You know I spent some time…away. I had a bit of a miscalculation in Siberia, but I’m **fine**. Mycroft helped me escape and then I came home. They stitched me up, and I was as good as new.”

John’s mind is racing. The older man has seen and felt those types of scars. In a war zone, men would disappear because they were kidnapped and tortured for days or weeks at a time in Afghanistan. If they returned at all, they came back scarred and broken either physically or mentally. There was something Sherlock said that causes John’s breath to catch and his chest to tighten in a cold realization. When John finally does speak, it’s in a choked whisper, “So, you’re telling me that you were tortured for weeks, if not months, and then you came home to London and I—.” He raises a trembling hand to his chest and bunches the material of his jumper in his fist tightly to ground himself before continuing, “You would have had fresh stitches, and I—my fucking god—I fucking beat you. Why—why didn’t you say anything? You let me beat the hell out of you. Your back would have set up infection during your time away. You had to be in excruciating pain, and instead of welcoming you back with open arms, I hurt you. I  **HURT** you, Sherlock.”

To Sherlock’s horror, John’s eyes well up with tears. In an odd turn of events, instead of John embracing Sherlock to comfort the detective, as it usually would be, it’s the other way around. John finds himself enveloped gently in Sherlock’s arms as he traces John’s spine in what he hopes is a calming manner as he tries to sooth him, “John, there’s no way you could have known. It’s not your fault. I had hurt you and it was foolish of me to assume that you would be completely ecstatic to see me. Obviously, you would have been hurt and angry at the deception. I don’t blame you and you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

John withdraws enough to gaze up at Sherlock with fierce determination, “But that’s still no excuse. I’ve begged to any god that would listen to bring you back to me and instead of being grateful, I hurt you in so many ways. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

The Consulting Detective is at a loss for words and because of that, he can only lamely whisper that everything is alright. However, when John looks up at the detective, he notices the same wide eyed disbelief that only occurs when the detective does not comprehend that John could feel love or affection for Sherlock. The detective does not fight the other man as he wraps the taller man in a cautious embrace. He silently promises to take better care of his madman’s heart in the future because it is still so fragile.

They stand there, embracing, for several minutes until finally, John presses a kiss against the bullet wound—that Mary left behind—through the cotton shirt before gently asking, “May I see?” The detective can feel panic rising in his chest, but he manages to get out a breathless sounding, “Why?”

Because I want to see you… Because I want to make sure—” ‘ _ that you’re okay, that you’re really here with me, that you’re mine and they can’t take you away from me again,’  _ is left unsaid, but Sherlock hears it anyway.

Sherlock steps back and begins to slowly unbutton his plumb colored shirt with only a slight hesitation until he can finally shrug it off his shoulders. He pauses once more to take one last calming gulp of air before turning slowly and baring his back to John for the first time since his return. Silence. The detective tries desperately to remain standing there without running away to hide. John, however, is trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

There is so much  _ damage  _ there, so much anger and hatred is littered across once perfect skin. John steps forward, reaches his hand out to touch the angry, raised skin, but stops himself just inches before skin can touch skin. Eventually, he rests gentle hand against the detective’s back—afraid of more damage being done—and begins caressing the crisscross scars that travel down the expanse of the other man’s back.  _ Softly _ ,  **gently** , John begins kissing each and every inch of damaged tissue.

Sherlock raises a trembling hand to his mouth and presses against it firmly to keep any sound that might escape as tears begin to fall. Every other kiss is littered with whispered  _ thank yous _ and  _ I’m sorrys _ . ‘ _ We’re slowly healing each other,’  _ Sherlock realizes. That is not to say that everything will be perfect. There will still be questions, but right now, this is a time for healing and reaffirming and for  **_love_ ** .

As John finishes with Sherlock’s back, he gently turns the detective around and hugs him as if he’s something precious and something fragile. Two callused, worn hands gently cup angular features and thumbs continuously sweep underneath eyes to wipe away tears as he goes up on tiptoes to lay tender kisses against cupid bowed lips. When the tears have been expelled and they are standing together kissing softly, John withdraws, takes Sherlock’s hand, and begins leading Sherlock to his bedroom. They travel up the stairs and when they finally stand together in this safe-haven, John begins to take off his jumper and then his shirt to reveal still toned flesh. There, resting just on his left shoulder, lies a starburst scar depicting a time of his own pain and suffering.

He draws Sherlock hand up to his chest and rests it over his scar and presses the pale palm firmly onto the damaged tissue. Sherlock draws John’s hand to his chest and lays the calloused digits against his own bullet wound. They gaze at each other in silence for several moments before John steps forward until there is little space between them, Their hands never once leave the other. The sandy haired man smiles softly at Sherlock before stating, “You know, I’ve always hated this,” he states indicating his scarred shoulder, “but slowly, I began to realize it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Even though I have gone through so much pain and suffering and loss, I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it because it gave me the best thing I could ever ask for. It brought me to you and because of that, I would do it all over again. I would choose you every time, Sherlock.”

The detective has to swallow several times to get the knot in his throat to loosen enough to speak, he clears his throat softly, and takes a deep breath before stating, “John, I will never regret you. I know now that my absence hurt you, but I would do it all over again because it would mean that you are safe and alive. I would rather have you angry with me for the rest of your life than to lose you forever to death. Knowing you were alive was enough to keep me going when I had nothing else. No matter the pain or torture that I had to go through, you were the one thing keeping me going. I wanted you to be alive and happy, even if you never wanted to see me after that day. I am still so thankful that you came back to me, and I will try to live my life every day in a way that deserves that.”

John finally can’t bear whatever remaining distance between them and crushes their bodies together in a fierce embrace. He draws his hands up and down Sherlock’s scarred back, thanking any deity that Sherlock came back and that they are finally together after all this time. Softly, John gazes up at the taller man and nuzzles against his face gently, but leans back enough to seriously state, “I can’t go through that a second time, Sherlock. Promise me—.” He has to stop for a moment to regain his composure before continuing, “Promise me you won’t leave without me again. If you leave again, I won’t be able to survive it. Please, promise me.”

Sherlock crushes their bodies together this time and adamantly and wholeheartedly promises. It nearly killed him, too. They had spent too much time apart. Eventually, they strip down to nothing but their pants (embarrassed flushes from Sherlock flash brilliantly across his pale features the entire time) and cuddle together in a fort of blankets and pillows. Hesitantly, John asks Sherlock to tell him of his time in Siberia and in their safe haven of John’s bedroom, Sherlock finally explains the pain and torture he has gone through during his time away. He begins by telling John of why he jumped in the first place and finishes by returning home to London. Many tears and whispered encouragements and many kisses are shared continuously throughout  the entirety of the story, and through it all, they never let go of the other. They were both safe now and they love each other completely.

Just before John falls asleep, the older man hears a very quiet, “I love you,” pressed against his temple. With a soft, small, and tender kiss pressed against the other man’s bare chest, he gently whispers back, “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

Really, it shouldn’t be this easy, should it? Sherlock is supposed to be smarter than this, right? In this game of chess, he is definitely losing. He showed his heart and he let it rule his head. One by one his pieces will fall until nothing is left. This is almost too easy. How predictable. 

 

How... _ boring _ .

_ Check. _

The time is arriving.  _ Soon _ .  The clock ticks down to doomsday. Sentiment will be his downfall and it will only cause his destruction. Slowly, everything he has ever loved will burn with him. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put Sherlock together again. Oh, this is going to be such  _ fun _ .

Fingers type in a line of code and hit send. Across every electronic device and every form of social media one terrifying message is displayed, “ _ Did you miss me?” _

_ Check Mate _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you see what I'm doing with the chapters? I think I'm being clever, but I'm probably not. ^_^;
> 
> I wanted them to talk about the scars. As far as I know season four didn't give us a lot of things INCLUDING the scars. We know he's disfigured. WE KNOW. But they didn't talk about it, so I did. I was tired of that. That's part of the reason why this is not season four compliant. The only thing good we received was The Hug. That's it. Everything else was just painful and I was so sorry for my child (Sherlock, if you didn't know). I'm still upset about it. So anyway, that's why it's not season four compliant. I had several ideas about what season four was going to be like AND IT WAS NONE OF THOSE THINGS. I'm moving on before this get's any longer. Goodness...
> 
> Anyway, I'm so surprised about the amount of people reading my other works. Since this is an ongoing fic, I'll talk about it here. I can't help but ask myself every time a lovely message or kudo flashes across my email why you all like my older work so much? It's _awful_. I reread it and cringe. I commend you for your bravery and I thank you as sincerely as I can muster for giving me your time and patience. Thank you. 
> 
> Off to other things. Happy belated, belated Valentine's Day! I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always happy reading!!


	10. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Game is On!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of voilence (off screen?) and descriptions of gore/horror(?) (all of these are just to be safe. I am always trying to look out for people, so if you see anything that needs to be tagged, let me know, please). Mycroft does some things that are a bit not good. He earns the title of BAMF, let's just say that.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful, fantastic, and extraordinary beta. She always gives me such wonderful advice and encouragement!

How could a lovely, Autumn morning that started out so wonderul, turn into this? 

 

_ ‘Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?’ _ reverberates boldly around the detective’s skull until it too is drowned out by the white noise of his rising panic. He  **has to** find John. Where is he? Sherlock turns abruptly and begins searching the room for the other man with panicked eyes. When he finally finds John he crosses the meager distance between them and crushes the other man against his chest. John can feel Sherlock trembling violently against him. ‘ _ Keep it together, Watson,’  _ John thinks as he tries to stifle his own escalating anxiety, ‘ _ Sherlock needs you more right now.’ _

What are they going to do?

John withdraws enough to stare at Sherlock’s expression which is contorted in horror and fear as his eyes search frantically around the room for any possible invaders. Any distance between them seems to be too much for Sherlock as he crushes John against him once more as the tremors intensify further. John tries to gain Sherlock’s attention, but the other man appears to be unable to hear John’s voice. John tries two more times, before raising two calloused hands to reach out and encompass angular features and states in an outburst of fear, “ **Sherlock!** ” Verdigris eyes snap back to John’s worried features and Sherlock whispers out a broken exclamation of the other’s name as he embraces John once more. For a moment, all is silent except for Sherlock’s erratic breathing.

The ebony haired man slowly begins to calm enough for the trembling to stop when John haltingly begins, “I want you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say to you, Sherlock. Okay?” With a small nod, John continues, “You had your reasons the first time around, and I know I didn’t understand at the time but now I do. Having said that, while I do understand, I…can't’ go through that again. It almost killed me the first time. We are doing this  **together,** we will figure this out, and we will make plans  **together.** And if you don’t like that—.”

Sherlock cuts him off before he can continue, “Yes, John. Together. I can’t—I can’t do it all by myself again. So, yes, John. Whatever you say. We’ll do it your way this time.”

 

 

* * *

 

“ _ Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?” _

Dark eyes glare at the British government through the television screen in his office. Mycroft folds his hands on top of his desk and lowers his head. He knew this was a possibility when Moriarty’s body was never recovered, but he had hoped...he had desperately hoped and… He takes only a small moment to let his shoulders slump in a brief moment of wariness before straightening once more to the signature Holmes stature. The British Government begins making calls because he knows that security measure must be taken. He calls Anthea to him and they leave the quiet office of the Diogenes Club. It looks as though it’s time to go visit his baby brother.

* * *

 

Greg shows up at Baker Street just as Mycroft steps out of his own vehicle, Anthea in tow. Both men look at each other morbidly and solemnly as teary eyed Mrs. Hudson lets them in. They walk up the seventeen steps to 221B and Mrs. Hudson gently opens the wooden door. When they step up into the flat, they see the two men in a fierce embrace, each clinging to the other desperately. Lestrade clears his throat to signal their arrival, and, slowly, the two men untangle themselves from the other, but their hands remain locked in a death grip as they turn to face their audience. Silence falls across the room before Mycroft turns to Anthea with a pointed look and then begins to speak, “Gentlemen, we need a plan. Sherlock, you and I will travel to—.”

“What about me?” asks John.

Mycroft looks at John as if he were an idiot and then proceeds to explain that John will remain at Baker Street to keep him safe. With each pompous syllable, John can feel his anger rising before biting out, “Okay, that’s enough. I’m going to say this slowly enough that even you understand, Mycroft. Sherlock and I are not being separated this time. Wherever he goes, I go,” John enunciates carefully.

Mycroft turns to his younger brother for help, but finds none as Sherlock merely nods his head in acceptance. The two Holmes brothers engage in a silent conversation no one else is privy to until Mycroft dramatically rolls his eyes and huffs out, “Very well, then. If you are both certain.”

John nods firmly and then takes over, “From what Sherlock has said, we were all in danger when Moriarty made him jump, so security has to be raised for Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Greg should really—.”

“No way, mate. Can’t get rid of me that easy. You and this tosser here are the closest thing I have to family. I can’t lose you now.”

John smiles briefly before his expression turns solemn, “And finally…we need to give Mary some form of protection, too. No doubt she could probably take care of herself, and she would probably kill me for suggesting otherwise, but I would still rather be cautious than make assumptions.” When John finishes, Mycroft begins making phone calls and before long, two guards are posted outside Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and, with Molly’s text, she confirms that there are two armed men carefully trailing her. It was soon decided that more precautions would be made with more information, but for now, this is enough. When everyone finally leaves, Mary texts John about her own security guards and with enough pacification, she eventually relents to their presence when John reminds her of their growing child.

As things finally settle down that night, Sherlock guides John to their shared room and clings to him as if he would disappear if Sherlock lets the other man go. The younger man—as he listens to John’s even breaths—begins to pray. He feels like an idiot throwing thoughts into the air in hopes that they will be answered, but he prays to any deity that will listen that John Watson will be kept safe from whatever hell they will both soon face.

* * *

 

The next morning, Greg calls them to the scene of a fourth crime scene. This scene in particular takes place at the  _ Admiral Duncan _ , and as the three men enter, the once lively club is empty and lifeless.

It was not known up until this point that these murders were not some petty, artificial emotion squabbles turned deadly until this particular case. The killer left an odd clue that led police officers to realize that this was something much bigger than some petty murders. Two male bodies—one a short haired blond and the other a brunette with a riot of curls—are propped against the wall intimately leaning against each other, track marks clearly visible, more noticeable, however, are the two gaping holes where their hearts should be. Beside them, the burned remains of said hearts sits between the two men, leaving a dark, scorch mark against the white tiling of the club’s floor.  Scrawled across the wall in blood are the words, “I did promise to burn you, and so I will. You’ve gotten in my way for the last time. The game is over.”

After a long pause, Greg begins listing off their information, “The blond men before you are named Stephen Hendricks, age 32, approximately 6’1”, and the other man is James Williams, age 36, approximately 5’5”.  Cause of Death for both men, is an overdose of the artificial emotion of Love. Their hearts were removed postmortem and then burned.  Before these two, each victim was brutally beaten to death and it was assumed that it was over some petty artificial emotion feuds, but now, with this, we believe they are all connected. It seemed to be something connected to you…”

He does not need to continue this thought because it’s obvious. Very few people know what happened at the pool and even fewer people know the extent of what Moriarty said to the pair. The wording is unmistakable. The intention is clear. Two dead lovers—that look unmistakably like John and Sherlock—with their hearts burned. They are next. John stares intently at Sherlock, trying to gauge the detective’s mental well being, because he knows what this means. Moriarty is back. He is alive and he wants their blood.

Sherlock stares at Stephen for a very long time, before he begins to carefully and slowly walk around the bodies, and deductions begin to rush at him as he observes. Behind him, John receives a phone call and he excuses himself briefly and steps outside of the room. As Sherlock begins to spout off deductions—at a much more subdued pace than normal—John renters the room, looking extremely pale and shaking slightly. The Consulting Detective takes one look at his partner and knows.

“They’ve taken Mary.”

John explains that Mary had ditched her guards in order to spend time with a few of her friends. When they managed to catch back up with her, she readily went into their custody. On their way back, their car was overtaken and one guard was killed and the other disappeared. Mary is nowhere to be seen. When they arrived at the wreckage, the car was in flames. Any evidence worth mentioning went up in smoke.

The only thing that they can do now, is to try and lure the killer out into the open. Moriarty wanted the pair and so they devised a plan to act as bait. They would go to  _ Heaven _ and a message would be sent. They would meet the killer head on in hopes that Moriarty won’t be far behind. So, as they dance together, each kept a lookout for a man approximately 5’6”-5’7” with a medium build, size 11 shoe, who appeared out of the ordinary. 

 

John was pleasantly surprised to learn that Sherlock has many different styles and ways to dance and that he does it so incredibly well. When this is all over, they would have to go dancing. As John leans in to tell his lover just that, Sherlock leans forward and whispers into his partner’s ear, “We are being watched by a man in the corner of the room near the bar. He fits our description of the perpetrator. When this song is over, I will make an excuse and leave the room.” In order to look as if he weren’t conspiring against a killer, Sherlock leans away enough to kiss playfully at the both corners of John’s mouth, before trailing his lips across John’s cheek back to his ear, “Give me a few minutes and follow.” Sherlock withdraws enough to plant a soft kiss against his lover’s mouth as the song ends. He gives a fond, soft look and mummers that he will be back shortly and winks as he leaves. John smiles because he knows it’s not all an act. Sherlock can be incredibly adorable at times. 

 

Sure enough, the mystery man follows the detective out of the room. John waits for a five minutes and then, as stealthily as possibly, follows the pair down a hallway leading off into another corridor. When he rounds the corner, he sees the bathroom dead ahead and enters in without further thought. However, when he opens the door, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. The mystery man is standing at the sink washing his hands. When John tries to speak to him, the man brandishes a knife and tries to attack the former blogger. In one quick move, John has him disabled and pinned to the floor. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone and quickly calls Greg. The man tries to escape, but John slams him back into the ground once more.

 

Where in the world is Sherlock? He couldn’t have gone far, unless…he was taken too? At this point, John begins to panic. As Lestrade enters the building and takes the man into custody. When John’s hands are free, he immediately calls Sherlock without success. He tries four more times before calling Mycroft. It takes one ring before the British Government answers. 

 

“Hello, John. What can I do for you—.”

 

“Mycroft, I can’t find Sherlock. Do you know where he is?”

 

On the other end of the line, papers can be heard shifting and shuffling before everything falls silent. Silence was not encouraging in the least and when Mycroft intone monotonously that he can’t find him, John feels something cold and heavy drop into his chest at the words. If Mycroft didn’t know, the chances of finding him would be very slim. Lestrade knew by the look on John’s face that something terrible had happened. John tells Mycroft to meet him and Lestrade Scotland Yard to interrogate the killer because he may know where Mary and Sherlock are. However, Mycroft gives them an address to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Newport. 

 

The ride to Newport felt like an eternity Lestrade already ascertained what had happened and was now gripping the wheel tightly in order to keep from murdering the man in the back seat or panicking to the point of incoherency. Mycroft Holmes was awaiting their arrival and Lestrade threw the murderer on the ground and quickly the three men descended upon him. Before the questioning begins, John pulls Greg outside and states that some force would have to be used to get the other man to answer and if he would be okay with that. Greg pauses for a moment and slowly states, “You and Sherlock are the brothers I never wanted. I’m in this to find Sherlock, mate. I won’t kill the guy, no, but...we will find Sherlock. Whatever it takes.”

 

John felt oddly touched at Greg’s sincere words, but there is no time for that now. When they find Sherlock, then they can celebrate. John nods solemnly and they walk into the warehouse together only to find that Mycroft had already stated without them. The other man lay broken and bloodied on the floor, gasping for air as Mycroft casually straightens his tie and turns to the other men as he states monotonously, “His name is Lector Myers and he  _ swears  _ he doesn’t know a moriarty.” When the man does not give any further information, the eldest Holmes steps forward and steps on the man’s broken fingers. Lector screams in agony at the sudden rush of pain and he begs for mercy. However, Mycroft only calmly reminds him that he gave none of his victims mercy, so why should mercy be given to him?

 

Lector sobs out his pain and begins to speak in his native Russian vernacular. Mycroft releases the man’s hand and starts walking around Mr. Myers’ prone body.  

 

“Why are you working for James Moriarty?”

 

When Lector doesn’t immediately answer, Mycroft grabs his other hand and begins breaking more fingers. John’s inner physician winces and sympathises with each of Lector’s screams, but the soldier in him knows that they are running out of time so this is a necessity. Greg inhales sharply at Mycroft’s brutality and silently prays that he never crosses the eldest Holmes. Mycroft strolls calmly over to the other side of the room and picks up a hammer and brings it back over to the broken man. Myers screams when he sees the hammer’s shiny head and begins screaming, “I HAD NO CHOICE. MORIARTY HAS MY FAMILY!”

 

Myers sobs brokenly as he admits this information. Mycroft puts down the hammer and makes an impatient gesture to encourage him to continue. When Lector is sure Mycroft won’t harm him further, he brokenly whispers, “Moriarty said that my family would die if I didn’t perform each of these tasks with a certain precision. Please! Moriarty has my two beautiful children. I had to. I had to do it! God, their faces. All those people.”

 

He breaks down once more as each of their faces passes across his memory, but Mycroft is unperturbed as he continues, “Where is he? Where is Moriarty?” Lector is already shaking his head before Mycroft finishes. It’s no surprise when he states, “I don’t know.” Mycroft bends down once more to pick up the hammer, and Lector continues screaming that he truly does not know where Moriarty is located. John can’t bare to hear anymore and he gently touches Mycroft’s arm to get his attention and when he does, he inclines his head to the door to go outside. When they are out of earshot, John begins, “I think he’s telling the truth, Mycroft. I have a feeling he doesn’t know too much. It’s like from before. A lot of people knew the name, but not much else.”

 

The British Government nods his head and they each walk inside, but stop short when they realize that Lector Myers is dead. From where John is standing, it looks like he had taken a suicide pill, if the amount of foam spilling out of his mouth were any indication. Myers had, apparently, said too much. 

 

Their one lead was now dead. Throughout the entire interviewing process, Mycroft had remained stoic and calm, but now, his face is contorted in raw fury. John’s facial features are a conflicting array of worry, rage, and grief because Sherlock is still missing and they are no closer to finding him than when they first began. Where do they even begin looking for Sherlock now? Moriarty had thousands of hideaways around the world. They are running out of time.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s vision swims as he tries desperately to focus on his surroundings, however, the light is so bright, that he has to clench his eyes tightly shut to keep the pounding in his head to a minimum.He tries to move his arms, but he quickly discovers that they are bound to a wooden chair. If he listens closely, he can hear water splashing against some surface as it echoes off of the high ceilings and walls. He knows he’s not near the ocean because he can’t hear the waves, wind, or birds. He knows it’s not raining, there’s the pitter patter of water droplets crashing to the ground. As footsteps begin to echo off the walls and ceiling, he also knows that he is not alone. He turns his head to the side and slowly cracks open his eyes to take a look around.  Instantly, he recognizes the broken remains of the pool where little Carl Powers died, and his blood runs cold. The structure still remains intact, but the rubble and charred walls make everything look dark and ominous. This time, when he shuts his eyes, it’s to calm himself down so that he doesn’t get sick. It doesn’t take a genius of his caliber to understand what has happened. Moriarty has captured him and now John is vulnerable. 

The sound of feet stop directly in front of him and when he opens his eyes, Mary—who is very much  **not** pregnant—is standing just a few feet away. A wave of relief washes through him despite her altered appearance, “Oh, thank god you’re alright! Quick, untie me before Moriarty comes back. We need to escape now!” When Mary does not move to help, Sherlock becomes exasperated, “We don’t have time! Quickly! Please!”

 

Mary Morstan giggles almost maniacally as Sherlock only grows more and more confused. Her smile which once seemed so pleasant and pretty has turned dark and ugly. Her eyes look wild as she grins wickedly at the bound Consulting Detective. Dread slowly washes through his chest as he manages a quiet, “Mary?” Miss Morstan only giggles harder, pulls two syringes each out of her pocket. The first is filled with a solid black substance while the other contains a clear liquid. She smiles sinisterly as she states, “Oh, Sherlock, dear. You’re not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter took a long time to publish because I went on a bit of a holiday. I met wonderful people, but a three day trip that was supposed to make my rapidly deepening and alarming depression slightly better, only made everything worse and my anxiety a thousand times worse than it already was. I'm not in a good place, so both of these things made updating a slow, slow process.
> 
> I have some paralles going on here that I meant to make more obvious than I had originally wrote them out to be. My lovely beta caught that and fixed it for me. So, as always, thank you, QueenLadyAnne.
> 
> Before you say anything, no. This isn't *really* a case fic. This case was just to get Sherlock interested in the crimes. To lure him in, if you will. This case won't really come up again. I just needed to connect point A to point B, in all honesty and I felt that this was a good way to do it. As always, happy reading, everyone.


	11. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory to the true villian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Mentions of voilence (off screen?) and descriptions of gore/horror(?) (all of these are just to be safe. I am always trying to look out for people, so if you see anything that needs to be tagged, let me know, please).  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful, fantastic, and extraordinary beta. She always gives me such wonderful advice and encouragement!
> 
> Special Warning: Mary fans beware.

Just after the Fall of 1995, a new source of Artificial Emotions became accessible to the public if you knew the right people and if you had a lot of money. When this business skyrocketed, it quickly became apparent to Agatha that she would need to create an alias. Something that could remain anonymous and something that would never be traced back to her. She has had many different names up until this point. Long ago, before crime and murder drew her into it’s intricate web, Agatha went by her true name, but that was long before she became the ruler of an underground drug ring.

It was just after she surveyed her handiwork of all the carnage and disarray when she realized that a new profession was just on the horizons. Criminal for hire! However, at the age of 23, not many men would take a woman seriously, but she could easily remain in the shadows for now. No one could match her intellect. No one could beat her. A public figurehead would be needed eventually, but no matter, she is the mastermind. She is the puppeteer. She is the spider amongst the massive web.

So, she created a name that would strike fear and horror into the hearts of all when it was whispered in hushed tones.  _ Moriarty _ . Assassins are at her beck and call. Each specifically trained to be perfect. They knew that if they failed her, they would have to deal with her rage, immediate death was more appealing. She was a force of nature that was only spoken by her innermost circle or those brave or desperate enough to hire her.

One day, something  _ very _ interesting happened. A name was uttered in her inner realm. Sherlock Holmes. Slowly, he began interacting and dismantling parts of her web. Considering no one had gotten this close before, this was actually very exciting! It’s time to play a game. She begins setting up puzzles just to entertain him. Minor pieces begin to crumble. Simple threads begin to snap, but she was proud of him. He is a worthy opponent, someone on par with her intelligence. He could become an asset to her network. Maybe it is time to issue out an invite.

Now she only needed a man. Someone to live the role. She finds Richard Brooks and he is a  _ fantastic _ actor. Yes, he would do splendidly. She sets up the dominos one by one and when everything is in place, she releases the first one, and things start falling into place. They are dancing, she quickly realizes. Their bodies are moving in a seductive rhythm no one else seems to hear. They are  _ perfect  _ together. She places her figure head “Jim Moriarty” at the Bristol South Swimming Pool to issue out a personal summons to Sherlock Holmes. She kidnaps John Watson, the only remaining tie to Sherlock’s “good side” and sets the bait.

How  _ dare _ he. How  **dare** he choose John Watson over her?! John is irrelevant and ordinary, and  **boring** . He could never compare with her genius. Sherlock is hers, and if she can’t have him,  **no one will** . She vowed from that day onward that Sherlock would  _ burn _ . She would make sure that she would take everything he has ever loved away. He would have nothing left when she finished with him.

She makes it very obvious to him that he has two choices. He can either jump and commit suicide, or his friends will be murdered right in front of his eyes. Either way, it’s a win-win situation. She plants Richard on the roof, gives him a gun, lies to him by saying that the gun is filled with blanks, and tells him to stick to the script.  It was only too easy to collect his body later. No one would miss the dead man.

When Sherlock steps onto the rooftop, she already knows his decision and she  _ relishes _ in the pain etched across his angular features. She is going to  _ thoroughly _ enjoy this show.

She watches as two broken men crumble to the earth and she flourishes at the sound of the sickening crunch that Sherlock’s body makes as it impacts the concrete. As John sits on the sidewalk staring at the blood left behind from Sherlock’s fall, she can’t help the impish smile and the small wave she gives when everyone is distracted by the racing ambulance carting the lifeless Holmes away. She strolls away, very proud of herself.

So, she goes back to what she does best. She expands her web further and she sells more Artificial Emotions to those who are willing to pay the price. Her problem has been taken care of and she can thrive without any interference from outside forces.

She did not anticipate the fury of the Holmes brothers. At first, she did not know who the person was that was taking down her web, but she knew that it had something to do with Mycroft Holmes. She thought it was due to the fact that she had murdered his dear baby brother, but after footage came to her, she recognizes the man dismantling her organization. Somehow, Sherlock  _ survived _ and now he is destroying key elements of her criminal ring. Oh, he would pay. As soon as she catches him, she will make sure that he won’t be getting away without losing blood, at the very least.

Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes had been thoroughly intricate in their planning process, but, in the end, it only took one day that communication was transmitted when it shouldn’t have been and she had him. It was so fun to play with the once proud Sherlock Holmes. It was not easy to break him, but she had so much fun trying. And of course, he escapes the  _ one _ day she isn’t there watching the proceedings. Fortunately, she was prepared for this.

Months before this, she finally steps out of the shadows and insinuates herself in the thick of things. She takes on the name of a deceased woman and begins working as an unassuming nurse at the local clinic which is where she meets John. It was entirely too easy to seduce the already broken John Watson into her bed. She sunk her talons into his scarred and broken heart and easily manipulated it to do her bidding.

When she knew that Sherlock would be returning back to London, she stepped up her game and turned up the charm. John, whilst trying to prove that he could finally forget about the detective in order to move on, would be more than willing to bind himself to her in hopes that he can find some semblance of happiness.

When Sherlock arrives at the restaurant the night that John is going to propose, she sees every broken facial expression of Sherlock’s when he hears John’s words of love and devotion, and every wince that overtakes the detective’s unresisting frame as John reopens the wounds she herself put there. She is so giddy and she truly cannot resist in helping them get back together just in time to watch them both die a little more inside when she and John proclaim to love each other until the end of time. She enjoys watching Sherlock suffer as he is playing a wedding composition on stage they dance around the room supposedly gazing at each other with love and care. She watches as all the light dies in Sherlock’s eyes, and as John pretends to sleep that night—in order to forgo sex—she makes a call, while in the bathroom, and positions Artificial Emotion dealers near Baker Street and waits. Of course Sherlock answers the old siren call. He’s lost his touch. He’s not on par with her.  _ Excellent. _

When she murders Magnussen, she fully intends to murder Sherlock there as well. Unfortunately, somehow, the genius appears to have luck on his side. Because of that, however, she gains the ability to torture the detective even more, though. A blessing in disguise, if you will. Of course, John finds out, but that’s okay. This will only make Sherlock’s defeat so much sweeter when she finally manages to destroy the detective. She cuts all ties with John by giving him her wedding ring and by signing divorce papers, and she sets the final stages of her plan into motion. Her smile is dark and  _ angry  _ as she slides her thumb across the screen, types in a line of code, and hits send.

“ _ Did you miss me?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfiction is nearly over! It's about two more chapters (I think?). I am so very proud of this story. It was so fun to write and I had a great time :). 
> 
> This chapter was incredibly hard for me to write (when I first began writing this story). It's the sole reason it took so long to actually put this story out there. However, I knew where I wanted to go with this story, I just didn't know exactly how to write it all down. From the very beginning, I knew that I wanted Mary to be the villian of this story. If you follow me on tumblr, I was very VERY adament that Mary is Moriarty and I thought for **sure** that I was right. I had read so much meta and watched so many videos on the topic, taht it was only solidifed for me. I thought that's where the story was heading for season 4 and that's why I posted what I did in chapter 1 (2?). I wanted to have bragging rights (in a sense) for calling it. Haha... That's not where season 4 went. I am still very salty about it. I hate Mary. I despise her. If you meet me in person, I will tell you how much I hate her for all the shit she did. I can talk about it for hours and I become infuriated. It's bad. I still despise the fact that they tried to redeem her. You don't know how much it PAINED me to write Mary as a nice, sweet lady. She is not. She is awful. 
> 
> UGH. I need to stop now, or I'll just rant about this until the character limit. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Happy reading!


	12. Disgust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Character Death, noncon touching, noncon kissing, noncon drug use, sort of molestation (I think). I think that's it. I am always trying to look out for people, so if you see anything that needs to be tagged, let me know, please.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful, fantastic, and extraordinary beta. She always gives me such wonderful advice and encouragement!

“This was such a fun game, wasn’t it, Sherlock? You played it so poorly, you know. You’ve become so spineless, so weak, so... _useless_ . Love is a dangerous disadvantage, dear. Surprise! Guess what?! You’ve lost! Game over! I won!” Her smile morphs into a dark snarl as she continues, “We could’ve been something great, but you chose John Watson You **LOVE** him!.” She laughs without humor as she begins walking around the Consulting Detective’s bound body, “To find out he felt the same was just simply perfect, though! I knew just how to break you just as you broke me. I knew how to bring the mighty, indifferent Sherlock Holmes to his knees, and it was so easy!”

 

    She stops right in front of his chair, climbs up, and straddles his lap. She leans forward and begins softly kissing the detective’s neck as he squirms to get away. She continues unperturbed, “The sex with John was good, though. We had some pretty wild nights.” She smiles darkly at the detective, knowing her words are like knives, but she continues anyway, “All I had to put up with was your name being screamed out as John fitfully slept with his nightmares. What’s a few sleepless nights on my part when, in the end, I got to watch your face crumble when John told me he loved me? John chose me over you.Just like that. I easily took the one thing you thought you could never have, and all I had to do was sway my hips and play the sympathetic, understanding card and he was mine. That must hurt a lot, doesn’t it? Knowing that you are only second best?” She leans back and she pouts as her eyes appear doleful and sympathetic until she smiles brightly and states, “You can always change your mind, though. You can always pick me. I know it will take time, but you could eventually love me. John doesn’t have to know.” She leans forward until their noses are almost touching whilst simultaneously managing to undo three of his shirt buttons as her other hand travels down and unbuttons his trousers until Sherlock’s squirming made it impossible to continue. She pulls away and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

 

    Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head before stating, “Mary, this isn’t like you. Who is making you do this? Please, I can help you!” The ex-assassin smiles darkly as she replies, “Oh, Sherlock. No one is making me. I became this all on my own. Haven’t you figured it out yet?” She slides off his lap, folds her hands behind her back and begins circling once more. Sherlock’s eyes narrow briefly as he tries to get his drug muddled mind to work, properly before it finally clicks as. When it does, he jerks back so violently that he almost tips his chair over. His verdigris eyes bore into hers as he mutters in disgust, “It’s been you, hasn’t it? All these murders. Those people...Mary, people are dyin—.”

 

    “You’re become repetitive...or don’t you remember? What was it that he said again? Right.” She clears her throat and suddenly her face morphs into something dark as she shouts, “THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE **DO**!”

 

    The Consulting Detective blinks slowly and stutters out, “W-whatever he has on you, Mary, I can help you. You don’t have to do this.”

 

    She groans in disappointment and anger as she bellows out, “No, no, no, **DOOFUS** . No one has anything on me! I’ve left you enough clues and you _still_ **DON’T GET IT**. Why would I ever accept help from you?! You dismantled my web of A.E.s and Synthetic emotions!” Her demeanor changes once more as she throws her arms out wide and proudly declares, “It’s me, Sherlock. I’m Moriarty. Hi!!” He stares at her is clear disbelief as he tries to stutter out a denial, but she quickly grows tired of his utterings, rolls her eyes, and states, “Oh, really, is that so hard to believe? We both know I’m extremely brilliant. Don’t you remember the last time you were here? I was standing right on that ledge over there,” she points to the wall Sherlock is facing to proudly point out where she stood. “I was the one pointing the gun at your dear John’s chest. Remember that? How does it feel to know, that you and John were the ones to ever occupy the same room as me and live to talk about it? Really, it’s such an honor. But enough of pleasantries,” she suddenly becomes serious, her eyes turn to ice, “Mommy’s had enough, Sherlock. I want your answer now. Who do you choose?  Brilliant me or boring John?”

 

    Throughout Mary’s speech, Sherlock face contorts from disbelief, to realization, to fear, and finally his angular features settle on disgust and rage. Mary Morstan has made his and John’s lives so miserable. She has kept them apart for so long...She has hurt so many people and she nearly killed them both in the process. To find out that someone so close to them has hurt them so badly makes rage engulf the detective. There’s no hint of doubt or uncertainty as Sherlock coldly states, “As if there is really any question. I chose John then, and I’m choosing him now. I will **NEVER** chose you! It’s always been he and I against the rest of the world, and it’s going to stay that way, and if you touch one hair on his head, I will spend the rest of my days making sure you will pay.”

 

    Mary’s face, in turn, twists into a murderous glower as she promises, “Oh, don't worry, then. That won't take very long at all, _my love_.” She takes the syringe with the clear liquid and brandishes it for Sherlock to see as she continues, “Now, let’s take a nice nap as I call your precious John.”

* * *

  


    It’s been three days. Three days of endless searching in every bolthole, hideaway, and every known location that Moriarty had resided in London. John and Mycroft had plans to travel to Moscow tomorrow for starters in their out of country expedition. Nowhere is too far and distance will not stop them. Greg was working today, but he already planned to spend vacation days traveling to Moscow with the other two men. John went back to Baker Street today so that the blond can pack some clothes and necessities for the trip. Mycroft was taking care of last minute business while Anthea was packing his clothes. The three men have slept a few hours at most, each too worried about the missing detective to do trivial things like eat or sleep.

 

    John walks down the stairs from his bedroom, duffel bag in hand packed with clothes and toiletries for the long trip ahead, and as he stuffs his gun in his back pocket of his jeans before pulling on his coat, his cellphone rings. Without looking at the caller ID, he answers, “Hello,” he says with a sigh. He closes his eyes briefly before they fly open in shock.

 

    “John,” Mary whispers urgently.

 

    John’s heart hammers in his chest as he immediately asks, “Mary, thank god. Where’s Sherlock? Are you both okay?”

 

    “John, please hurry. They’re coming for us. Sherlock’s hurt, and we need backup as soon as possible.” The man in question immediately drops his duffel bag and begins gathering a few bandages that he quickly stuffs into his coat pocket as he anxiously asks, “Mary where are you? What do you see?”

 

    There is a pause as a gun goes off. He fears Mary’s been shot until she finally answers, “The walls are charred black, rubble is everywhere, and I believe there is a foundation for a pool in the center of the room.” Suddenly, her breath catches and her words are rushed and panicked, “I have to go, John. He’s here. Please, hurry!” The line goes dead even as John tries to get her to stay on the line. He rushes out the door, grabs a cab, rambles off an address, and he quickly rushes to the old Bristol South Swimming Pool. They’ve both been so close this entire time.

 

    As soon as the vehicle stops, John throws the money at the cabbie, waits long enough for the taxi to speed away, and then he is pulling out his Sig and begins to walk slowly into the building. He has his gun drawn as he first steps through the debris. He manages to walk a short distance until he suddenly hears more gunfire.

   

    The hallways are empty save for a few dead bodies that are littered sporadically throughout the establishment. He hears more gunfire just ahead through two ominous doorways that lead to the main pool area. As he begins walking softly and quietly, suddenly, the shots die down and everything is eerily silent. He begins walking faster, checking each room briefly but efficiently as he finally makes it to the end of the hallway. He opens the doors and slips inside.

 

    There, just at the other end of the pool entrance, sits a bound Sherlock, figure slumped, and unconscious. He scans the top landing for would be attacks, never once dropping his stance or loosening his grip on his gun, but rushes forward to check on his beloved when he discovers that no one is around to hurt either of them for the time being. When he finally reaches the other man, John begins checking his pulse, breathing, and if he has a possible concussion. There was no clear indicators of blood or trauma.  Everything checked out alright, Sherlock just appeared to be sleeping. He wants to sink into the floor in his relief, but refrains as begins to untie Sherlock’s bound hands. When that is accomplished, he begins trying to wake the Consulting Detective up. Sherlock stirs, begins to say John’s name, but, otherwise, does not awaken further.

 

    It was at that point that John hears a scream, and, as much as he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, Mary is still in danger, and he must help her too. He makes sure Sherlock won’t fall out of his chair, and then makes his way through the decaying building toward the sound.

 

    As he begins searching for his ex-wife, he rounds a corner and a bullet instantly rushes past his ear, barely missing. He quickly ducks back behind the wall, waits a moment, twists his body just enough for a clean shot, and then fires before ducking back behind the wall once more. There is a groan of pain and then a thud before silence falls. He peeks around the wall to find the other man lying on the floor. He checks the body and discovers that the assassin is dead. He continues onward, collecting the other man’s rifle in the process.

 

    Eventually, he reaches a dead end. The hallway ends in two separate supply closets and an employee bathroom, and with a quick check, he discovers that all three are empty. Confused, John makes his way back toward his detective to make sure he is alright and then to check other rooms. Mycroft would eventually be called because Moriarty is still at large. However, when he reaches his lover, he notices a figure standing behind Sherlock brandishing a gun and what looks to be a syringe filled with a black liquid. John draws his gun and aims it at the mysterious person’s head and he says in his best Captain’s voice, “Drop the gun and back away slowly!”

 

    Slowly, the hooded figure turns, raises their hands, and John comes face to face with his ex-wife.

 

    “Mary?”

 

* * *

 

    Other than an absence of her pregnant belly, she looks perfectly fine. Her face and eyes, however, are dark and malicious as she looks wickedly at the doctor as she states, “This is quite a turn up, isn’t it?” She walks forward—her body nearly flush against the detective’s back—her footsteps echoing off the walls, “We’re here again, aren’t we? I just knew you would come if I called, John. You’re just so _noble_ ,” Mary says with a sickened expression. “It’s pathetic, really. You never even realized that it was me! Even after I shot the man we both love,” she exclaims gesturing to the unconscious man.

 

    John’s face tightens as she says this, but his attention is immediately drawn to Sherlock as he begins slowly waking up. A soft, pitiful, “John,” escapes as he begins to stir. Mary cackles viciously and claps her hands together gleefully, “Oh, splendid! The gang’s all here! Sherlock, wake up, dear. Wouldn’t want to miss the party now, would we?”

 

    John, however, is slow on the uptake, “Mary...where’s the baby?” He asks in disbelief, but the rest of her sentence catches up to him, “Party…? What are you talking about? Where’s Moriarty?”

 

    Mary finally brings her body in contact with the detective and begins caressing his pale neck and chest while kissing his ebony curls. John steps forward, Sig poised as he clearly senses the threat now, but stops as one hand tilts the syringe against Sherlock’s inner elbow and states, “First of all, no baby.” She looks up at John then, smiles darkly, rolls her eyes, and states, “And secondly, I’ve already explained all this to him. I’m not going to go through it all again. **BORING!** The short version of this is that I am Moriarty. I tortured him in Siberia and sent him back home to you to be tortured to find us happily in love and moved on,” she says this in a high pitched, mocking voice and she gestures with the needle before placing it back at the crook of the detective’s elbow.

 

    There is no way that Mary should know any of that. He doesn’t want to believe that the woman he once married could be Moriarty, but suddenly it all makes sense. The fact alone that she has a past of being an assassin is proof enough that he never really knew her. John’s face turns dark and angry as he realizes that the woman he thought he knew is completely gone. Out of the corner of John’s eye, he sees Sherlock’s breathing changes and his hand twitches as if to say, ‘ _I’m okay, let’s end this.’_  His grip tightens on his gun and he reaffirms his aim, but Mary laughs—without noticing that Sherlock is awake—scornfully proclaims, “Oh, please, John. We both know you won’t hurt me. Your darling little wife, remember?” John snarls out, “My wife? Oh, but you were never really that, were you? I was a pawn. You used me to get to Sherlock. Mary Morstan never existed.”

 

    Moriarty giggles, “Oh, John. You were a doctor,” she says mockingly.

 

    “Yes, but I was also a soldier, and I had bad days! Vatican Cameos!”

 

    Without warning, Sherlock goes to dive out of his chair, but Mary catches him around the middle and shifts with his body weight, remaining behind the detective the entire time as they both land on the concrete floor. John can’t get a clear shot and she knows it. She laughs maniacally and states, “Oh, boys. I know that trick. That won’t work with me, dear.”

 

Sherlock begins struggling in her grasp, but he is still weak from the narcotics raging through his system. When that doesn’t work, he manages to jab a sharp elbow backwards to create enough room between the two struggling figures in order for John to take a shot. In seconds, a shot echos off the walls and blood begins to stain the front of Mary’s shirt. She scrambles to her knees and stares at her ex-husband with labored breath. Mary’s weight shifts forward as she coughs blood, but before John can react she smiles menacingly, lips stained dark red, and she begins to _laugh_. Her body then falls forward and stills.

 

    John rushes to Sherlock’s side, gun never leaving Mary’s still body until he can kick her gun away and lands hard on his knees next to the detective and begins to make sure that Sherlock is safe. The Consulting Detective smiles softly as one hand reaches up and cradles his blogger’s cheek. Eyes are stained with tears as each of the two men express their relief and happiness when they realize that it is over. John draws the other man closer and gently kisses the detective several times until lips travel upward to Sherlock’s temple and ebony curls to just breathe him in.

 

    The other man in his arms hugs him back just as tightly for a few minutes until suddenly, his arms go slack and he becomes a dead weight in John’s arms. He withdraws in alarm as the other man begins convulsing violently. He lays Sherlock on the floor in the recovery position as Sherlock begins screaming, tears streaming down his agonized face.

 

The doctor places Sherlock on his side as he tries to find anything that Mary might have done to the other man. Out of sight—when Sherlock was on his back—the syringe from before sticks out of the detective’s side.He can’t lose him now. Not after everything they’ve been through together.

Panic flows through John as he takes the needle out and throws it across the room as he tries desperately to reach into his pocket to call for help before it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it was my intention to create an absolute batshit crazy Mary. I wanted her to seem insane. I hope I succeeded. As Sherlock said, "Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. I had the idea swirling around in my head that Mary, while incredibly smart and cunning, and...well, EVIL, could become just as sentimental and sloppy when it came to love as Irene was. That's how she eventually lost the game, and ultimately, Mary loses to it as well. 
> 
> Honestly, I'm not entirely sure about this chapter. I always wanted Mary to be shot by John. That was so important to me. I wanted that to be the ultimate "I pick you," moments. I hope that was conveyed. I had a certain amount of enjoyment while writing this chapter. I hope you do too. As always, happy reading!


	13. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness finally finds our boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapters: Minor Character Death (Mycroft is a bit excessive at one point) I think that's it. I am always trying to look out for people, so if you see anything that needs to be tagged, let me know, please.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I just love him to pieces and torment him mercilessly.  
> Special Thanks: QueenLadyAnne, my extremely wonderful, fantastic, and extraordinary beta. She always gives me such wonderful advice and encouragement!

Sherlock lies in his hospital bed with an IV attached to his arm to administer fluids while he sleeps. Mary’s attempt to kill Sherlock with an overdose of Agony fell through because John found the syringe before much could actually get into the detective’s system and along with the fact that Sherlock had built up such a high tolerance to the synthetics. It’s still so hard to believe that they were so lucky. Due to his past affiliation with artificial emotions, the doctor’s wanted to make sure that no lasting side effects would an issue, but so far...things felt as though everything is going to be okay.

 

Fortunately for them, Mycroft was able to track John’s phone when he did not show up for their meeting to discuss their travel plans. He arrived with an ambulance and Greg Lestrade and they are able to get Sherlock to safety fairly quickly (although not quickly enough for John’s tastes).. Mycroft lingers long enough to put several bullets through Mary’s head himself in order to be absolutely certain that she cannot come back. The game is finally over, and he just wants to make sure that there is no way for Moriarty to return. He straightens his waistcoat, hands Anthea the gun he used to be disposed of, and with one word to a trusted operative dressed in black, the scene of the crime is taken care of. He travels to the hospital right behind the ambulance in his private car.

 

The Eldest Holmes left a little while ago to attend to business, but he assures John that he will know the exact minute Sherlock wakes up. Now, John sits here, right at Sherlock’s side, in an uncomfortable chair, drifting in and out of sleep, one calloused hand clinging tightly to the paler digits in its grasp, as he waits for Sherlock to wake up. It’s been a waiting game for about  day  now, and John knows that Sherlock will be just fine, but until he can hear the detective tell him himself, John will continue to worry.

 

When Sherlock finally begins to stir, John is instantly awake, any thought of sleep flying out the window. The Consulting Detective slowly opens his eyes, turns to John, smiles, and croaks out, “Hello, John.” The doctor grabs a cup of water and gently tips it against Sherlock’s mouth and helps him keep the glass steady as he drinks. When he is finished, John removes the cup, quickly sitting it on the table beside the bed, and envelops the other man in a fierce hug. He withdraws just enough to press soft kisses across any available surface of Sherlock’s face and head before sitting back in the uncomfortable chair, without once dropping the detective’s hand.

 

When each man settles once more, John’s bright smile turns serious as a thought crosses his mind and he inquires, “What happened when we lost you? There were three days that no one knows where you went. Mycroft tried his hand in persuasion, and we had managed to get a bit of information from the killer, but he killed himself before anything else could be gotten from him.”

 

Sherlock’s face too falls into something more serious as he thinks for a moment before stating, “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. I remember expecting the man from before to try and overpower me, but he didn’t. He was just a distraction. Someone came up behind me and drugged me. I stayed drugged for a majority of those three days. I woke up thinking Mary and I would escape, but then she told me that she was Moriarty and that during my time away I had dismantled her web of synthetics. She called you and she drugged me again. That’s all I can remember. John...what about the baby?”

 

John nods his head throughout Sherlock’s speech, but his face tightens as the detective mentions another one of Mary’s many lies. His fingers never stop their sweep over Sherlock’s knuckles, though, as he pauses before slowly replying, “The baby was never real, Sherlock. Mary said that much. She didn’t explain, but it is easy to fake a pregnancy if you know the right people. If what you said is true, Mary had accomplices all over the globe. Bribing someone at a woman’s health clinic would be a piece of cake.”

 

Sherlock watches him carefully, but aside from looking tired of Mary’s lies, he did not seem to regret losing a figmented child. John, sensing Sherlock’s train of thought and inquisitive eyes, sighs deeply and states, “When I was younger, I had this dream that I would eventually live the idealistic life. I would have my own practice, I wanted the white picket fence dream, a trophy bride, maybe a dog, and a few kids. That is not what my life has become.” Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock stare at his hands, waiting for John to say that maybe a relationship with Sherlock is not actually what he wants, thank you very much. Sherlock wouldn’t blame him for it either. His panic slowly begins to rise as his mind begins playing back all the mistakes he’s made at John’s expense. He’s put John through enough hardship to last a lifetime.

 

The blogger reaches out with his free hand and tips the detective’s chin so that they can look at each other as he continues, “I went to war, I got shot, and that was the end of being a successful doctor. Sure, I could prescribe cold medications, and I can test for the flu and strep, but it did not have the appeal of adventure being an army doctor did. I wanted adventure. I wanted excitement in my life. Domesticity did not sound too exciting while I was in Afghanistan. When I came back, I thought a quiet life would help, but that was before I became useless.”

 

The detective looks at his doctor in outrage and as he goes to tell John how wrong he is, the former soldier gently brings Sherlock’s face closer and silences him with a kiss, “Shh, love. It was true. I could barely walk and I because of the tremor in my hands, I couldn’t perform surgery. I was broken. And then,” he smiles, “And then this absolute git of a detective dazzles me with his brilliance, sweeps into my life, and wraps me up into excitement and danger.” John’s face falls slightly, but the soft smile never truly leaves his face as carries onward, “Things got a bit complicated, though. He was gone, and then he wasn’t, but I got married, and a little one was supposed to be on the way. I thought I would have a go at domesticity again. I thought it was some sign, I suppose..truth be told, none of that really made any sense to me. We hadn’t...I hadn’t...since you came back, and in the back of my mind, I knew the dates didn’t really match up, but in the confusion, it was not as pressing as it should have been. While being a father had some appeal, I would not trade it for the life I am living now. You make living life exciting every day just because it’s  **you** that I’m with. I’m overjoyed being with you. And I’ll continue being happy, this content with you even if we are old and grey and we can’t go solving crimes. Yes, I love the adrenaline. I love the chase probably as much as you do, but you are what makes life better, Sherlock.” John looks at the ceiling and blinks to ward off any tears before he manages to choke out, “ **You** are my adventure. So get whatever notions you have that you are not good enough out of your head. You’re all I’ve ever wanted from that first day.”

 

The shocked expression that always appears when the Consulting Detective can’t quite believe someone would voluntarily say nice things about him returns full force at John’s confession. John’s smile stretches across his face as he kisses his detective once more. Sherlock withdraws enough to anxiously inquire, “John, you can’t know that. A lifetime is an incredibly long time. Are you sure you would want that? With me?”

 

John’s smile broadens as he nods. He takes a breath to reaffirm that he does in fact love Sherlock more than anything, but all that comes out is, “Marry me.”

 

Both men are surprised by John’s outburst, but now that it’s been said, the former army surgeon loves the idea. When Sherlock doesn’t reply, just looking at John as if he’s grown a second head, John continues, “I know I don’t have the best track record, but if you’ll have me, will you marry me?” Sherlock is nodding his head frantically before John can finish his sentence. The detective draws John into a fierce hug, joy overwhelming them both. 

 

That is how Mycroft finds them. The British Government quickly reads the situation and he allows a small smile to spread across his usually stoic features before letting it transform into something a little more condescending as he walks fully into the room and speaks with a put upon pompous air, “Hello again, brother mine. Welcome back to the world of the living. You’ll be able to leave once your physician clears you. Knowing that John is a doctor will sway them into allowing your early departure.”

 

The pair withdraws enough to look at the auburn haired man, happy smiles never truly leaving their faces as the Consulting Detective turns to his elder brother, Sherlock tries his best to scowl, but it falls through as Sherlock’s eyes dance. He tries to bite off a convincing, “Piss off,” but this too lacks its usual bite. John can’t be bothered to chastise Sherlock as he normally would in his own joy as he joins Sherlock’s childlike giggles. 

 

Mycroft easily reads the happiness on each of their faces, and the British Government in turn feels more positively inclined due to their sunny dispositions. He sneers, but it lacks its usual bite as his shoulders sag in relief. The elder Holmes finally feels as though he can finally rest easier now that the two men have found each other, not that he ever would, though. After all the pain and agony they’ve been through, they both deserve happiness. He walks forward and gently grasps his brother’s forearm, his voice soft, “Take care of your goldfish, Sherlock. Congratulations, brother mine.” Sherlock nods his head, turns to his blogger, and finally lets the smile overtake his features, he turns to Mycroft, eyes dancing as he says, “Yes, thank you, Myc.”

 

It does not go unnoticed by either brother’s attention that this is the closest they will ever get to declaring brotherly love and affection. This simple embrace and simple words would appear lackluster or normal under any other circumstance, are considered to be full of love and care. John, on some level understands this and remains silent as the two men engage in silent communication for awhile until Mycroft gently smiles and nods his head before tilting his head in John’s direction and then leaving. When he is in the hallway, away from the loving couple, he allows one, final, bright smile to spread across his face, before cold indifference takes over. He grips his umbrella handle tighter and walks out of the hospital knowing that Sherlock would be alright.

 

Sherlock’s doctor, name already forgotten, walks in, gives John basic directions to care for Sherlock, and permits their leave. Sherlock, however, had already began getting dressed, anxious to leave the dreaded hospital and was now mocking the physician. Soon, the two men walk out of the building, hand in hand, and make their way back home.

 

_ Home _ . It feels like weeks have gone by, when it’s only been a few days. 

 

They walk up the seventeen steps to their rooms and Sherlock pauses at the doorway when they finally manage to open the threshold. He takes John’s hand in his own and together, they walk into their home. It feels like it is much more than just a homecoming after being gone for a few days. It feels like this could be the beginning of a forever. 

* * *

 

Their wedding is a small affair. Sherlock likes very few people and after the debacle that was his last wedding, John wants only the people he loves and cares for most to be there. John asks Greg to be his best man and Mycroft is Sherlock’s. Greg smiled graciously and is very touched to be considered as John’s best friend (other than Sherlock, of course). Mycroft, on the other hand, blinks rapidly for several long minutes, trying desperately to understand these confounding emotions and what his little brother could possibly want of him.

 

Sherlock now understands what John means by the blinking thing being scary. He tries to declare that it’s just because John took Lestrade, but no one is fooled. Deep down, the two brothers love each other dearly and they would have no one else. 

 

Mike Stamford, when he receives an invitation to one William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Waston’s wedding, doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His wife finds him lying on the floor, staring blankly up at the ceiling smile etched broadly on his face, the invitation clutched to his chest. When she finally coaxes him off the floor, he lays out his best suit, he dusts off his dancing shoes, and he marks his calendar for May 5th. He had hoped for so long that John and Sherlock would eventually get together, and now he is going to their wedding.  _ Finally _ . 

 

So, as Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sholto, Angelo, Clara, Mike, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Greg, Mycroft, and the two engaged men, shuffle into a cramped little office joyous smiles spread across each face as a kind faced woman walks them through a generic ceremony. Sherlock and John smile all throughout the ceremony and their hearts soar as they say their vows. Mycroft has never seen his little brother happier and Greg is just happy to see John smile again. Their small ceremony concludes, and they all travel to Angelo’s where many of the tables are pushed to the back for dancing. The newlyweds (Sherlock Watson-Holmes and John Watson-Holmes) take full advantage of the space as Sherlock smiles and twirls and laughs as he and John clumsily dance around the room. Mrs. Hudson cries because her boys are finally together, and she officially has married ones of her own (Take that, Mrs. Turner)!  The crowd cheers as the married couple kiss. Bright cheerful smiles adorn every face.

 

Sherlock cannot believe his good fortune. For so long he feared that he would always be alone, and for most of his adult life, he had been. When he met John Hamish Watson, he thought that there had finally been someone made just for him, someone cut from the same cloth, but then Moriarty took that dream away. There had been so much pain and sadness. They had been lost for so long and Sherlock feared he would never get his doctor back. But John, ever dependant, loyal John came back to him and promised to love him for the remainder of their days. There would be dark days. Nothing is ever perfect. John would still need to go out for air and Sherlock would still screech out sour notes on his violin, but they would always find their way back to each other. It’s always been the two of them and now, on this day, in front of all their friends and family, a promise to always come home has been made.

 

For the first time in over twenty years, Sherlock finally feels content without the aid of Artificial Emotions. He can’t remember the last time his mind was blissfully silent without the use of synthetic feelings. John brings him peace. 

This thought causes him to pause, and he stops in place as he realizes this thought to be true. The doctor stops to match him and suddenly John’s worried face comes into view as he reaches up and cups Sherlock’s cheek in an effort to reassure, calm, or support the other man if needed. John knows he doesn’t do parties and he is still surprised that the other man agreed to marry him at all—never mind attend said wedding!

 

John is brought back to the present as Sherlock cups John’s hand against his cheek and he softly smiles as he shakes his head to calm the doctor’s fears. He leans forward and kisses the other man gently as the crowd cheers once more. He looks at John and his eyes dance as he says, “I’m fine. I’m just...happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! Goodness, what a ride! I enjoyed this story so, so much. I love it. It's been one of my favorites to write and I can honestly say that I am so proud of it. I hope you enjoyed this story, too. I hope you like the ending! I've had this in mind from the very beginning. I was doing homework and suddenly, the last line came to me. I stared out into the distance for the longest time, dropped my pencil, and raced to write it down. I thought it was perfect! I hope it is well received. Anyway, I saved this for the end so you can just skip it if you want, but on to the thank you's. 
> 
> Thank you to:  
> -QueenLadyAnne, my extraordinary Beta that was sick this week and a bit of last that still powered through to help with this final chapter.  
> -M Theory   
> -Rebekah (TJLC Explained)  
> -And last, but certainnly not least, all of YOU. You who were so kind and supportive. You guys who followed me on tumblr and FF.net. Those who gave kudos and left comments, you are my heros. Thank you so much for being so kind to me and my child of a story. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart. I love each and every one of you.
> 
> Anyway, I'll stop now before I get weepy. I hope you enjoyed this story, and as always, Happy reading!


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